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WHITE LIE 


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BY 


CITART.ES READE 




AUTHO:? OF 


^ixiLE, LOVE ME LONG,” “IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND,” “HAR 
CASH,” “GRIFFITH GAUNT; or, JEALOUSY,” “PEG WOFFINGTON,” 
“CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE,” &c., &c. 


" N E W YO R K : 

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CHARLES READE’S NOVELS 


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White Lies. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Towards the close of the last century, the 
Baron de Beaurepaire lived in the chateau of that 
name in Brittany. His family was of prodigious 
antiquity. Seven successive barons had already 
flourished on this spot of France when a younger 
son of the house accompanied his neighbor the 
Duke of Normandy in his descent on England, 
and was rewarded by a grant of land, on which 
he dug a moat and built a chateau, and called it 
Beaurepaire ; the worthy natives turned this into 
Borreper without an instant’s delay. Since that 
day more than twenty gentlemen of the same 
'neage had held in turn the original chateau and 
rands, and handed them down to their present 
lord. 

/ Thus rooted in his native Brittany, Henri 
Lionel Marie St. Quentin de Beaurepaire was as 
fortunate as any man can be pronounced before 
he dies. He had health, rank, a good income, a 
fair domain, a goodly house, a loving wife, and 
two lovely young daughters all veneration and af- 
fection. Two months every year he visited the 
Faubourg St. Germain and the Court. At both 
every gentleman and every lackey knew his name 
and his face; his return to Brittany after this 
short absence was celebrated by a rustic/c^e. 

Above all, Monsieur de Beaurepaire possessed 
that treasure of treasures, content. He hunted 
no heartburns. Ambition did not tempt him. 
Why should he listen to long speeches, and court 
the unworthy, and descend to intrigue, for so pre- 
carious and equivocal a prize as a place in the 
government, when he could be De Beaurepaire 
without trouble or loss of self-respect? Social 
ambition could get little hold of him. Let />ar- 
venus give balls half in doors half out, and light 
two thousand lamps, and waste their substance 
battling and manoeuvring for fashionable distinc- 
tion ; he had nothing to gain by such foolery, 
nothing to lose by modest living ; he was the 
twenty-ninth Baron of Beaurepaire. So wise, so 
proud, so little vain, so strong in health and 
wealth and honor, one w’ould have said nothing 
less than an earthquake could shake this gentle- 
man and his house. Yet both were shaken, though 
rooted by centuries to the soil. 

But it was by no vulgar earthquake. 

For years France had bowed in silence beneath 
two galling burdens : a selfish and corrupt mon- 
archy, and a multitudinous, privileged, lazy, and 
oppressive aristocracy, by whom the peasant, 
though in France he is the principal proprietor of 
the soil, was handled like a Russian serf. 


Now when a high-spirited nation has been long 
silent under oppression — tremble, oppressors! 
The shallow misunderstand nations as they do 
men. They fear where no fear is, and play crib- 
bage over a volcano. Such are they who expect 
a revolt in England whenever England grumbles 
half a note higher than usual. They do not see 
that she is venting her ill-humor instead of bot- 
tling it, and getting her grievances redressed 
gradually and safely. Such is the old lady who 
pinches us when the engine lets off steam with a 
mighty pother. Then it is she fears an explosion. 
Such are they who read the frothy bombast of 
Italian Republicans, and fancy that nation v of 
song, superstition, and slavery is going to be free, 
— is worthy to be free, — has the heart or the 
brains or the soul to be free. 

Such were the British placemen, and the pig- 
headed King, who read the calm, business-like, 
respectful, yet dignified and determined address 
of the American colonists, and argued thus : — 

“ What, they don’t bluster; these then are men 
we can bully.”* 

Such were the French placemen, who did not 
see how tremendous the danger to that corrupt 
government and lawless aristocracy, when an 
ardent people raised their heads, after centuries 
of brooding, to avenge centuries of wrong. 

We all know this wonderful passage of history. 
How the feeble king was neither woman, nor 
man-— could neither concede with grace nor resist 
with cannon. How his head fell at a moment 
when it was monstrous to pretend the liberties of 
the nation ran any risk from the poor old cipher. 
How the dregs of the nation came uppermost aud 
passed for “the people.” How law, religion, 
common sense, and humanity hid their faces, the 
scaffbld streamed with innocent blood, and terror 
reigned. 

France was preyed on by unclean beasts, half 
ass, half tiger. They made her a bankrupt, and 
they were busy cutting her throat, as well as ri- 
fling her pockets, when Heaven sent her a Man. 

He drove the unclean beasts otf her suffering 
body, and took her in his hand, and set her on 
high among the nations. 

But ere the Hero came, — among whose many 
glories let this be written, that he was a fighting 
man, yet ended civil slaughter, — what wonde 

* Compare the manifestoes of Italian Republicans wit 
the proclamations and addresses of the American cr>innio» 
— i. e. compare the words of the men . ' ' 

words of the men of deeds, — the men l 
men who succeed ; it is a lesson in hui ui 
differ as a bladder from a bludgeon, oi 
from Noll Cromwell’s. 


WHITE LIES. 


1 honest man and good Frenchman ' 
France. Among these was M. de 

I :r- 

ublicans — murderers of kings, mur- 
nen, and persecutors of children — 
yes, the most horrible monsters Hu- 
;roaned under. 

black for the King, and received no 
)rooded in the chateau, and wrote 
letters ; and these letters all came 
private hands. He felled timber, 
rge sums of money upon his estate. 

• xhed his opportunity, and on pre- 
lurney disappeared from the chateau. 

ths after, a cavalier, dusty and pale, 
courtyard of Beaurepaire, and ask- 
0 baroness; he hung his head, and 
tter. It contained a few sad words 
d Larochejaquelin. The baron had 
i y I La Vendee, fighting, like his ances- 
■ side of the Crown. 

. ‘ ti!., hour till her death the Baroness 

1 Ci: 

5 ' i'-ner would have been arrested, and 
' f'j ',aded, but for a friend, the last in 
whom the family reckoned for any 
. ... Doctor St. Aubin had lived in the 

• ‘ V wty years. He was a man of science, 

) t lb : .ii i^are a button for money ; so he had 

.(!.'• I ..:u ;he practice of medicine, and pursued 

• ^ ' 1 . b 3 with ease under the baron’s roof. 

( d him, and laughed at his occasional 
. he days of prosperity; and now, in 

. c !• ; ds, the protege became the protector, 

*1' lishment and his own. But it was 
' ' * : ; and downs. This amiable theorist 

V ■ « . the oldest verbal Eep ublicans in 

lis is the less to be wondered at that 
V Republic is the perfect form of gov- 
'• If. ; is merely in ])ractice that it is im- 
3 only upon going off paper into re- 
: ing actually to self-govern old nations 

territory and time to heat themselves 
. ' til the fire of politics and the bellows 

. that the thing resolves itself into 
and bloodshed, — each in indefinite 

. . Aubin had for years talked and 

• ’ lative Republicanism. So, notknow- 

ir they assumed him to be a Kepubli- 
' “i ■ ipplied to him to know whether the 
j • red her husband’s opinions, and he 
i, 3d them she did not ; he added, 

^ iipil of mine.’’ On this audacious 
A 1 ‘ 3 y contented themselves with laying 
on the lands of Beaurepaire. 
s were abundant at this time, but good 

. •, ; per — a notorious coward— had made 

a: ; a - nd fied, and specie was creeping into 
• •: o , like a startled rabbit into its hole. 

' a vas paid, but Beaurepaire had to be 
. fi> .gaged, and the loan bore a high rate 

' j ao sooner arranged than it transpired 
' on just before his death had con- 

• . debts, for which his estate was an- 

i ' ess sold her carriage and horses, and 
i : I her daughters prepared to deny 

Ibut the bare necessaries of life, anil 
• ' ' debts if possible. On this their de- 

i away from them ; their fair-weather 


friends came nci ger near them ; and many a 
flush of indigni ii crossed their brows, and 
many an achinJ ang their hearts, as adversity 
revealed to them baseness and inconstancy pf 
common people hig.i or low. When the other 
servants had retired with their wages, one J acintha 
remained behind, and begged permission to speak 
to the baroness. 

“ What would you with me, my child ?” asked 
that high-bred lady, with an accent in which a 
shade of surprise mingled with great politeness. 

“ Forgive me, madame the baroness,” began 
Jacintha with a formal courtesy ; “ but jiow can 
I leave you and Mademoiselle Joseph!’ id 
Mademoiselle Laure ? Reflect, madamr as 

born at Beaurepaire ; my mother die. he 

chateau ; my father died in the village ; he 
had meat every day from the baron’s owri' ^ . ^le, 
and fuel from the baron’s wood, and died blessing 
the house of Beaurepaire — Mademoiselle Laure, 
speak for me ! Ah, you weep ! it is then that 
you see it is impossible I can go. Ah no ! ma- 
dame, I will not go ; forgive me ; I can not go. 
The others are gone because prosperity is here no 
longer. Let it be so; I will stay till the sun 
shines again upon the chateau, and then you shall 
send me away if it seems good to you ; but not 
now, my ladies ! Oh, not now ! Oh ! oh ! oh !” 

Tlie warm-hearted girl burst out sobbing un- 
gracefully. 

“ My child,” said the baroness, “these s iti- 
ments touch me, and honor you. But reth.^ if 
you please, while I consult my daughters.” 

.Jacintha cut her sobs dead short, and retreated 
with a most cold and formal reverence. 

The consultation consisted of the baroness 
opening her arms, and both her daughters em- 
bracing her at once. 

“My children! there are then some who love 
you.” 

“No ! you, mamma! It is you we all loA’e.” 

Three women were now the only pillars, a man 
of science and a servant of all work the only out- 
side props, the buttresses, of the great old house 
of Beaurepaire. 

As months rolled on, Laure Aglae Rose de 
Beaurepaire recovered her natural gayety in spite 
of bereavement and poverty, — so strong are youth 
and health and temperament. But her elder sis- 
ter had a grief all her own. Captain Dujardin, a 
gallant young officer, well born, and his oAvn 
master, had courted her with her parents’ con- 
sent ; and even when the baron began to look 
coldly on the soldier of the Republic, young 
Dujardin, though too proud to encounter the 
baron’s irony and looks of scorn, would not yield 
love to pique. He came no more to the chateau ; 
but he would wait hours and hours on the path 
to the little oratory in the park, on the bare 
chance of a passing word or even a kind look from 
Josephine. So much devotion gradually won a 
heart which in happier times she had been half 
encouraged to give him ; and when he left her on 
a military sendee of uncommon danger, the tvoin- 
an’s reserve melted, and, in answer to his prayers 
and tears, she owned for the first time that she 
loved him better than any thing in the world, - 
— except duty and honor. 

They parted in deep sorrow, but full of hope. 

■Woman- like she comforted him through In 
tears. 

“ Be prudent for my sake, if not for your owi 


WHITE ITES. 


May G(X -'atcli over you r Your claufjer is our 
only fear ; ^we are a uuited family. My father 
\vill never foR-ti \iy inclinations ; these unhappy 
dissensions will soon cease, and he will love you 
again. I do not say, ‘ Be constant.’ I will not 
wrong either myself or you by a doubt ; but 
promise me to come back in life, oh, Camille, Ca- 
mille !” 

Then it was his turn to comfort and console 
her. He promised to come back alive, and with 
fresh honors, and so more worthy the Demoiselle 
de Beaurepaire. 

They pledged their faith to one another. 

Letters from the camp breathing a devotion 
little short of worship fed Josephine’s attachment”; 
and more than one public mention of his name 
and services made her proud as well as fond of 
the fiery young soldier. 

The time "was not yet come that she could open 
her whole heart to her parents. The baron was 
now too occupied with the state to trouble his 
head about love fancies. The baroness, like 
many parents, looked on her daughter as a girl, 
though she was twenty years old. She belonged, 
too, to the old school. A passionate love in a 
lady’s heart before marriage was with her con- 
trary to etiquette, and therefore improper ; and, 
to her, the great word “ improper” included the 
little word “ impossible” in one of its many folds. 
Josephine loved her sister very tenderly ; but 
Laure was three years her junior, and she shrank 
witli modest delicacy from making her a confi- 
dante of feelings the bare relation of which leaves 
the female hearer a child no longer. 

Thus Josephine hid her heart, and delicious 
first love nestled deep in her nature, and thrilled 
in every secret vein and fibre. Alas! the time 
came that this loving but proud spirit thanked 
Heaven she had never proclaimed the depth of 
her attachment for Camille Dujardin. 

They had parted two years, and he had joined 
the army of the Pyrenees about one month, when 
suddenly all correspondence ceased on his part. 

Kestless anxiety rose into terror as this silence 
continued ; and starting and trembling at every 
sound, and edging to the window at every foot- 
step, Josephine expected hourly the tidings of 
her lover’s death. 

IMonths rolled on in silence. 

Then a new torture came. Since he was not 
dead, he must be unfaithful. 

At this all the pride of her race was fired in 
her. 

The struggle between love and ire was almost 
too much for nature. 

Violently gay and moody by turns, she alarmed 
both her mother and the good Doctor St. Aubin. 
The latter was not, I think, quite without suspi- 
cion of the truth ; however, he simply prescribed 
change of air and place. She must go to Frejus, 
a watering - place distant about five leagues. 
^Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire yielded a languid 
assent. To her all places Avere alike. 

That same night after all had retired to rest, 
came a low, gentle tap at her door; the next 
moment Laure came into the room, and, Avithout 
saying a Avord, put doAvn her candle and glided 
ujj to Josephine, looked her in the face a mo- 
ment, then Avreathed her arms round her neck. 

Josephine panted a little : she saAV something 
Avas coming ; the gestures and looks of sisters are 
A’olumes to them. 


Laure clung to her neck. 

“What is the matter, my child?” 

“I am not a child! there is your mistake. 
My sister, why is it you love me no longer ?” 

“ 1 love you no longer?” 

“No! We do not hide our heart from her 
Ave love ; AA'e do not try to hide it from her Avho 
loA'es us. We knoAv the attempt Avould be in 
A'ain.” 

Josephine panted heavily; but she ansAvered 
doggedly : — 

“ Our house is burdened A\dth real griefs ; is it 
for me to intrude vain and unAA’orthy sentim ~ 
upon our sacred and honorable soitoavs ? 01 my 

sister, if you haA'e really detected my folly, do 
not expose me! but rather help me to cor . 
and to conquer that for Avhich your elder no - 
blushes before you !” 

And the proud beauty boAved her Avhite £< v, 
head on the mantel-piece, and turned gcrnly 
aAvay from her sister. 

“Josephine,” said Laure, “I am young, 
already 1 feel that all troubles are light comp : 
Avith those of the heart. Besides, we share ovr 
misfortunes and our bereaA'ement, and com' t 
one another. It is only you Avho are a miser, 
and grudge me my right, — a share of all ^ >'o’ 
joys and all your griefs ; but do you knoAv th,i 
you are the only one in this chateau Avho dr 
not loAe me?” 

“Ah, Laure, AAdiat AA^ords are these? my 1 '■ 

is older than yours. ” 

“No! no!” 

“Yes, my little faAvn, your Josephine lo 
you the hour you Avere born, and has loved _ 
eA’er since, Avithout a moment’s coldness.” 

“Ah! my sister! — my sister! As if I 
not know it. Then ybu Avill turn your face 
me?” 

“See!” 

“ And embrace me ?” 

“There!” 

“And, noAv, bosom to bosom, and heart 
heart ; tell me all ?” 

‘ ‘ I Avill — to-morrow. ” 

“At least give me your tears ; you see I iv ■ 
not niggardly in that respect.” 

“Tears, loA'e — ah! Avould I could!” 

“ By-and-by then ; meantime do not palpitr . * 
so. See, I unclasi) my arms. You Avill find !• 
a reasonable person, indulgent eA^en; compc e 
yourself; or, rather, AA'atch my proceedings ; yo' 
are interested in them.” 

“It appears to me that vou propose to sle ‘o 
here!’ 

‘ ‘ Does that vex you ?” 

“ On the contrary.” 

“There I am!” cried Laure, alighting amoi ; 
the sheets like a snoAv-flake on Avater. “I aAva- ■ 
you, mademoiselle.” 

Josephine found this lovely face AA'et, yet smil- 
ing saucily, upon her pilloAv. She dreAV the fitir 
OAvner softly to her tender bosom and aching 
heart, and Avatched the bright eyes close, and the 
coral lips part and shoAv their pearls in child-like 
sleep. 

In the moiTiing Laure, half awake, felt some- 
thing SAveep her cheek. She kept her eyes closed, 
and Josephine, believing her still asleep, fell to 
kissing her, but only as the south Avind kisses the 
violets, and embraced her tenderly but furth'ely 
like a feather curling round a lovely head, caress- 


8 


WHITE LIES. 


ing yet scarce touching, and murmuring, “Little 
angel !” sighed gratitude and affection over her ; 
but took great care not to \vu 3 her with all this. 
The little angel, who was also a little fox, lay- 
still and feigned sleep, for she felt she was creep- 
ing into her sister's lieart of hearts. From that 
day they were confidantes and friends, as well as 
sisters, and never had a thought or feeling un- 
shared. 

Josephine soon found she had I'ery few facts to 
reveal. 

Laure had watched her closely and keenly for 
Tionths. It was her feelings, her confidence, the 
ittle love wanted ; not her secret, — that lay bare 
ilready to the shrewd young minx, — I beg her 
lardon, — lynx. 

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak 
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 

A deep observer proclaimed this three hundred 
■-ears ago, and every journal that is printed now- 
adays furnishes the examples. 

From this silent, moody, gnawing, maddening 
orrow', Laure saved her elder sister. She coaxed 
aer to vent each feeling as it rose ; her grief, her 
floubt, her mortification, her indignation, her 
pride, and the terrible love that at times over- 
. lowered all. 

Thus much was gained. These powerful an- 
' agonists were no longer cooped up in her bosom 
'attling together and teaiing her. 

They returned from Frejus : Josejihine with a 
blicate rose-tint instead of the jiallor that had 
liiarmed St. Aubin. Her mood fluctuated no 
more. A gentle pensiveness settled upon her. 
She looked the goddess Patience. 

She was inconceivably lovely. 

Laure said to her one day, after a long gaze 
'ther: — 

“ I fear I shall never hate that madman as I 
ught. Certainly when I think of his conduct, I 
ould strike him in the face. ” Here she clenched 
er teeth, and made her hand into a sort of ir- 
. 2 gular little snowball. “But when I look at 
ou I can not hate, I can but pity that imbecile 
-that—” 

“Oh, my sister,” said Josephine, imploringly, 
let us not degrade one we have honored with 
:ir esteem, — for our oAvn sakes, not his,” added 
le, hastily, not looking Laure in the face. 

“No! forgive my vivacity. I was going to 
II you I feel more pity than anger for him. 

’ 'oes he mean to turn monk, and forswear the 
!X? if not, what does he intend to do? Where'' 
in he hope to find any one he can love after ^ 
■ )u? Josephine, the more I see of our sex, the ^ 
ore I see that you are the most beautiful woman 
France, and by consequence in Euroj)e.” 

The smile this drew was a very faint one. 

“ Were this so, surely I could have retained a 
single heart.” j 

“ You have then forgotten vour La Fontaine ?” 
“Explain.” *' I 

“ Does he not sing how a dunghill cock found 
a pearl necklace, and disdained it. And why ? 
Not that pearls are worth less than barley-corns ; ! 
but because he was a sordid bird, and your ' 
predecessors were w^asted on him, my Josephine, j 
iSo I pity that dragoon who might have revelled 
in the love of an angel, and has rejected it, and 
lost it forever. There, I have made her sigh.” ' 
“ Forgive me.” 


“Forgive her? for sighing? I am, then, very 
tyrannical.” 

One day Laure came into the room where the 
baroness. Doctor St. Aubin, and Josephine were 
sitting. 

She sat down unobserved. 

But Josephine, looking up a minute after, saw 
at a glance that something had happened. Laui-e, 
she saw', under a forced calmness, was in great 
emotion and anxiety. Their eyes met. Laure 
made her a scarce perceptible signal, and imme- 
diately after got up and left the room. 

Josephine waited a few seconds ; then she rose 
and went out, and found Laure in the passage, 
as she expected. 

“ My poor sister, have you courage?” 

“ He is dead !” gasped Josephine. 

“No! he lives. But he is dead to us and 
France. Oh, Josephine, have you courage ?” 

‘ ‘ I have, ” faltered J osephine, quivering from 
head to foot. 

“You know Dard, who Avorks about here for 
love of Jacintha? For months past I have set 
him to .speak to every soldier who passes through 
the village. ” 

“Ah ! you never told me.” 

“ Had you known my plan, you W'ould haA'e 
been forever on the q^li vive ; and your tranquil- 
lity was dear to me. It was the first step to hap- 
piness. Hundreds of soldiers have passed, and 
none of them knew him even by name. To-day, 
Josephine, two haA'e eome that knoAv all!” 

“All! Oh, Laure, Laure!” 

“ He is disloyal to his country. What aa'oii- 
der he is a traitor to you !” 

“It is false!” 

“The men are here. Come, Avill you .speak 
to them ?” 

‘ ‘ I can not. But I Avill come ; vou speak : 
I shall hear.” 

They found in the kitchen two dismounted 
dragoons before AA'hom Jacintha had set a bottle 
of wine. 

Th.ey arose and saluted the ladies. 

“Be seated, my brave men,” said Laure, 
“and tell me Avhat you told Dard about Captain 
Dujardin.” 

“Don’t stain your mouth Avith the captain, 
my little lady. He is a traitor !” 

“ Hoav do you knoAv ?” 

“ Marcellus ! Mademoiselle asks us hoAV Ave 
knoAV Captain Dujardin to be a traitor. Speak ! ” 

Marcellus, thus appealed to, told Laure, after 
his OAvn fiishion, that he kneAV the captain Avell ; 
that one day the captain rode out of the camp, 
and never returned ; that at first great anxiety 
Avas felt on his behalf, for the captain Avas a great 
favorite, and passed for the smartest soldier in 
the division; that after a Avhile anxiety gave 
])lace to some A’ery aAvkAvard suspicions, and 
these suspicions it Avas his lot and his comrade’s 
here to confirm. About a month later he and 
the said comrade and two more had been sent, 
Avell mounted, to reconnoitre a Spanish village. 
At the door of a little inn they had caught sight 
of a French uniform. This so excited their cu- 
riosity that he Avent foi'Avard nearer than prudent, 
and distinctly recognized Captain Dujardin seat- 
ed at a table drinking, betAveen tAvo guerrillas ; 
that he rode back and told the others, Avho then 
rode up and satisfied themselv'cs it AV'as so ; that 
if any of the party had entertained a doubt, it 


WHITE LIES. 


9 


was removed in an unpleasant way. lie, Mar- 
cellus, disgusted at the sight of a French uni- 
form drinking among Spaniards, took down his 
carabine and fired at the group as carefully as a 
somewhat restive horse permitted, at which, as 
if by magic, a score or so of guerrillas poured out 
from Heaven knows where, musket in hand, and 
delivered a volley: the officer in command of 
the party fell dead, Jean Jacques got a broken 
arm, and liis own horse was wounded in two 
])laces, and fell from loss of blood a few furlongs 
from tlie French camp, to the neighborhood of 
which the vagabonds pursued them hallooing and 
shouting and firing like barbarous banditti as 
they were. 

“ However, here I am,” concluded Marcel- 
lus, who was naturally more interested in him- 
self than in Captain Dujardin, “invalided for a 
while, my little ladies, but not expended yet: 
we will soon dash in among them again for death 
or glory ! Meantime,” concluded he, filling both 
glasses, “ let us drink to the eyes of beauty (mil- 
itary salute), and to the renown of France, — and 
double damnation to all her traitors, like that 
Captain Dujardin — whose neck may the devil 
twist.” 

In the middle of this toast Josephine, who had 
stood rooted to one place with eyes glaring upon 
each speaker in tum, uttered a feeble cry like a 
dying hare, and crept slowly out of the room 
with the carriage and manner of a woman of 
fifty. 

Laure’s first impulse was to follow Josephine, 
but this would have attracted attention to her 
despair. She had the tact and resolution to re- 
main and say a few kind words to the soldiers, 
and then she retired and darted up by instinct 
to Josephine’s bedroom. The door was locked. 

“Josephine ! Josephine !” 

No answer. 

“I want to speak to you. I am frightened, — 
oh ! do not be alone !” 

A choking voice answered : — 

“I am not alone, — 1 am with God and the 
saints. Give me a little while to draw my 
breath.” 

Laure sank down at the door, and sat close 
to it, with her head against it, sobbing bitterly. 
The sensitive little love was hurt at not being 
let in, such a friend as she had proved herself. 
But this pei’sonal feeling was but a small frac- 
tion of her grief and anxiety. 

A good half-hour liad elapsed when Josephine, 
pale and stern as no one had ever seen her till 
that hour, suddenly opened the door. She start- 
ed at sight of Laure couched sorrowful on the 
threshold ; her stern look relaxed into tender 
love and pity ; she sank on her knees and took 
her sister’s head quickly to her bosom. 

“ Oh, my little heart !” cried she, “ have you 
been here all this time ?” 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh !” was all the little heart could 
reply. 

Then Josephine sat down, and took Laure in 
her lap, and caressed and comforted her, and 
])oured words of gratitude and afiection over her 
like a warm shower. 

The sisters rose hand in hand. 

Then Laure suddenly seized Josephine, and 
looked long and anxiously down into her eyes. 
They flashed fire under the scrutiny. 


“Yes,” she replied, “it is ended. I could 
not despise and love. I am dead to him, as he 
is dead to France.” 

“Ah! I lio^jed so, — I thought so; but you 
frightened me. My noble sister, were I ever to 
lose your esteem I should die. Oh, how awful, 
yet how beautiful is your scorn ! For worlds I 
would not be that Cam — ” 

Josephine laid her hand imperiously on Laure's 
mouth. 

“To mention that man’s name to me '>iU ’ 
to insult me! l)e Beaurepaire I am, ard 
Frenchwoman! Come, love, let us go 'lov. i 
and comfort our mother.” 

They went down; and this patient s jf . 
and high-minded conqueror of her own tc -or ■ 
took up a commonplace work, and read ir u. 
for two mortal hours to her mother and S . iu- 
bin. Her voice never wavered. 

To feel that life is ended, — to Avish exhreix c. 
too, had ceased; and so to sit down, an : ; 

hollow, and take a part and sham an inte c- i 
twaddle to please others, — such are wcni 'n 
feats. How like nothing at all they look ! 

A man would rather sit on the buffe’" - 
steam-engine and ride at the great Redan. 

Laure sat at her elbow, a little behind hes , ni 
turned the leaves, and on one pretense or iiv 
held Josephine’s hand nearly all the rest ' rh 
day. Its delicate fibres remained tense ''I c 
greyhound’s sinews after a race, and th ■ li. 
veins rose to sight in it, though her voi( > an 
eyes were mastered. 

So keen was the strife, so matched the ;• . u; 
onists, so hard the victory ! 

For ire and scorn are mighty. 

And noble blood in a noble heart is a he ■ . 

And Love is a Giant. 


CHAPTER II. 

About this time, the French province - 
organized upon a half-military plan, by ‘.\ h 
all the local authorities radiated tOAvards a ; 
tre of gOA’ernment. This feature has st . • 

subsequent revolutions and political chan^ \- 
In days of change, youth is ahvays at < 
mium; because, though experience is A^a t i,-, 
the experience of one order of thing unfits oi ,l r > y 
men for another order of things. A gooc r .i i 
old fogies in office Avere shoAvn to the do(. a . ‘ 
a good deal of youth and energy infused i . 
veins of provincial government. , 

For instance. Citizen Edouard Riviei . f 

had just completed his education Avith s : jij 

eclat at a military school, AA\as one fine day order- i i 
ed into Brittany to fill a responsible post under 
the Commandant Raynal. 

Neiwousness in a neAV situation generally ac- 
companies talent. The young citizen, as he rode 
to present his credentials at head-quarters, had 
his tremors as AA^ell as his pride ; the more so as 
his neAV chief AA'as a blunt, rough soldier, that 
had risen from the ranks, and bore a much high- J' 
er character for zeal and moral integrity than I 
for aft'ability. [' 

While the 3’oung citizen rides in his breeches i 
and English top-boots, his Avhite Avaistcoat and j 
j craA'at, his abundant shirt-frill, his short-Avaisted | 

I blue coat Avith flat gilt buttons, his j)ig-tail, hisl 


10 


WHITE LIES. 


liandsome tliongh beardless face and eager eyes, j 
to this important interview, settling beforehand 
what he shall say, what shall he said to him, and 
what he shall reply, let us briedy dispose of the 
commandant’s j)revious history. 

He was the son of a widow that kept a grocer’s 
shop in Iharis. She intended him for spice, hut 
he thirsted for glory,— kept running after the 
soldiers, and vexed her. “Soldiering in time 
of peace,” said she ; “ such nonsense, — it is like 
. imming on a carpet.” War came and robbed 
;or satire of its point. The boy was resolute, 
le mother yielded now; she was a French- 
tman to the backbone. 

In the armies of the Republic, a good soldier 
. . ;e with unparalleled certainty, and rapidity 
) ; for when soldiers are being mowed down 
i e oats, it is a glorious time for such of them 
iv keep their feet. 

Raynal rose through all the inteiwening grades 
he a commandant and one of the general’s 
- ' 'es-du-camp, and a colonel’s epaulettes glittered 
; sight. All this time, Raynal used to w'rite to 
mother, and joke her about the army being 
h a had profession, and as he was all for 
IT, not money, he lived with Spartan frugali- 
and saved half his pay and all his prize-mon- 
br the old lady in Paris. 

Lnd here, this prosperous man had to endure 
reat disappointment ; on the same day that 
was made commandant, came a letter into 
camp. His mother was dead after a short 
; .i ess. This was a terrible blow to the simple, 

. : ged soldier, who had never had much time 
nr inclination to flirt with a lot of girls, and 
) . ^hen his heart. 

le came hack to Paris honored and rich, hut 
‘ ^ncast. -i- 

• )n his arrival at the old place, it seemed to 
i rv not to have the old look. It made him sad- 
To cheer him up, they brought him a lot 
■ money. The widow’s trade had taken a won- 
■ ml start the last few years, and she had been 
ing the same game as he had, living on ten- 
,ce a day and saving all for him. This made 
,, sadder. 

What have we both been scraping all this 
. • >3 together for? I would give it all to sit 
. >T»e hour by the fire, with her hand in mine, and 
r'ur her say, ‘ Scamp, you made me unhappy 
. n you were young, but I have lived to be 
id of you.’ ” 

le found out the woman who had nursed her, 
g more five-franc pieces into her lap than she 
ever seen in one place before, applied for 
ve service, no matter what, obtained at once 
post in Brittany, and went gloomily from 
Paris, leaving behind him the reputation of an 
ungracious brute, devoid of sentiment. In fact, 
tb.e one bit of sentiment in this Spartan was any 
thing but a romantic one ; at least, I am not 
aware of any successful romance that turns on 
filial affection : but it was an abiding one. Here 
is a ])roof. It mvas some months after he had 
left Paris, and, indeed, as nearly as I can re- 
member, a couple of months after young Riviere’s 
first interview with him, that, being in conver- 
sation with his friend Monsieur Perrin the no- 
tary, he told him he thought he never should 
cease to feel this regret. 

The notary smiled incredulous, but said noth- 
ing. 


“We Avere fools to scrape all this money to- 
gether ; it is no use to her, and, I am sure, it is 
none to me I” 

“Is it permitted to advise you?” asked his 
friend, persuasively. 

“ Speak !” 

“ This very money which your elevated nature 
condemns may be made the means of healing 
your wound. There are ladies, fair and pru- 
dent, who would at once capitulate — he! he! — 
to you, backed, as you are, by tAvo or three hun- 
dred thousand francs. One of these, by her youth 
and affection, Avould in time supply the place of 
her your deA'Otion to Avhose memory does you so 
much credit. That sum AA'ould also enable a'Ou 
to become the possessor of an estate, — a most 
advisable im'estment, since estates are just noAv 
unreasonably depressed in value. Its Avood and 
Avater Avould soothe 3'our eye, and relieve your 
sorroAv by the sight of your Avealth in an enjoya- 
ble form!” 

“Halt! say that again in half the Avords!” 
roared the commandant, roughly. 

The notary said it short. 

“You can buy a fine estate and a chaste Avife 
Avith the money,” snapped this smooth personage, 
substituting curt brutality for honeyed ])rolixity. 
(Aside.) “Marriage contract so much, — com- 
mission so much.” 

The soldier Avas struck b}'- the propositions the 
moment they hit him in a condensed form, like 
his much-loved bullets. He 

Granted half his prayer, 

Scornful the rest dispersed in empty air. 

“Have I time to be running after AA'omen ?” 
said he. “But the estate I’ll liaA’e, because you 
can get that for me AA’ithout my troubling my 
head.” 

“Is it a commission, then ?” asked the other, 
sharply. 

‘ ‘ Parhieu ! Do you think I speak for the 
sake of talking ?” 

No man had eA’er a larger assortment of tools 
than Bonaparte, or kncAv better Avhat each could 
do and could not do. Raynal Avas a perfect 
soldier as far as he Avent, and therefore Avas 
A’alued highly. Bonaparte had formed him, too ; 
and Ave are not averse to our OAvn Avork. 

Raynal, though not fit to command a division, 
had the chic Bonaparte visibly stamped on him 
by that master-hand. 

For a man of genius spits men of talent by 
the score. Each of these adopts one or other of 
his many great qualities, and builds himself on 
it. I see the marechals of the empire are begin- 
ning to brag, noAv CA'ery body else is dead. Well, 
dissect all those iiiardcha/s, men of talent, eveiy 
one of them, and combine their leading excel- 
lences in one figure, and add them up : Total, — 
a Napoleonetto.* 

“ Who is that ? I am busy Avriting.” 

“ Monsieur the Commandant, I am the citizen 
Riviere, I am come to present myself to you, and 
to—” 

* I mean, of course, as far as soldiering goes; but sol- 
diering was only a part of the man, a brilliant part which 
lias blinded some people as to the proportions of this co- 
lossal figure. He Avas a profound, though, from necessi- 
ty, not a liberal statesman, a great civil engineer, a mar- 
vellous orator in the boudoir and the field, a sound and 
original critic in all the arts, and the greatest legislator 
of modern history. 


WHITE LIES, 


11 


“I know — come for orders.” 

“ Exactly, commandant.” 

“ Humph! Here is a report just sent in by 
young Nicole, who fills the same sort of post as 
you, only to the northward. Take this {)en and 
analyze his report, while I write these letters.” 

“Yes, commandant.” 

“ Write out the heads of your analysis 

Good : it is well done. Now take your heads 
home and act under them ; and frame your re- 
port by them, and bring it me in person next 
Saturday.” 

“It shall be done, commandant. Where are 
my quarters to be?” 

The commandant handed him a pair of com- 
passes, and pointed to a map on which liiviere's 
district was marked in blue ink. 

“ Find the centre of your district.” 

“ This point is the centre, commandant.” 

“ Then quarter yourself on that point. Good- 
day, citizen.” 

This was the young official’s first introduction 
to the chic Bonaparte. He rather admired it. 

“This is a character,” said he; “but by St. 
Denis, I should not like to commit a blunder un- 
der his eye.” 

Edouard Kiviere had zeal, and he soon found 
that his superior, Avith all his brusquerie, Avas a 
great appreciator of that quality. His instruc- 
tions, too, were clear and precise. Riviere lost 
his misgivings in a very feAV days, and became in- 
flated Avith the sense of his authority and merit, 
and the flattery and obsequiousness that soon Avait 
on the former. 

The commandant’s compasses had pointed to 
the village near Beaurepaire as his future abode. 

The chateau A\’as in sight from his apartments, 
and, on inquiry, he AA'as told it belonged to a 
Royalist family, — a AvidoAV and two daughters, 
Avho held themselves quite aloof from the rest of 
the Avorld. 

“Ah!” said the young citizen, Avho had all 
the new ideas, and had been sneering four years 
at the old r(^givie. “ I see. If these rococo citi- 
zens play that game Avith me, I shall haA-e to take 
them doAvn.” 

Thus, a fresh peril hung OA'er this family, on 
Avhose hearts and fortunes such lieaA-y bloAvs had 
fallen. 

One eA'ening, our young Republican officer, 
after a day spent in the service of the country, 
deigned to take a little stroll to relieve the cares 
of administration. He accordingly imprinted on 
his beardless face the expression of a Avearied 
statesman, and in that guise strolled through an 
admiring village. 

The men pretended A'eneration from policy. 

The Avomen, Avhose vicAA's of this great man 
Avere shalloAver but more sincere, smiled approval. 

Tlie young puppy affected to take no notice of 
either sex. 

Outside of the A’illage, Publicola suddenly en- 
countered tAvo young ladies, Avho resembled noth- 
ing he had hitherto met Avith in his district. 
They Avere dressed in black, and AAdth extreme 
simplicity ; but their easy grace and composure, 
and the refined sentiment of their gentle faces, 
told at a glance they belonged to the high nobili- 
ty. Publicola, though he had neA’er seen them, 
divined them at once by their dress and mien, 
and, as he drcAv near, he inA'oluntarily raised his 
hat to so much beauty and dignity, instead of 


just i)oking it Avith a finger d la Repuhliqxte. On 
this, the ladies instantly courtesied to him after 
the manner of their party, Avith a sweep and a 
majesty, and a precision of politeness, that the 
pu]> Avould have liiughed at if he had heard of it ; 
but seeing it done, and Avell done, and by loA'ely 
Avomen of high rank, he Avas taken aback by it, 
and lifted his hat again, and boAA'ed again after 
he had gone by, Avhich Avas absurd, and Avas gen- 
erally flustered. In short, instead of a member 
of the Republican Government saluting priAate 
individuals of a decayed party, that existed only 
by sufferance, a handsome, Amin, good-natured 
boy had met tAVo self-possessed young ladies of 
high rank and breeding, and had cut the figure 
usual upon such occasions. 

For the next hundred yards, his cheeks burned, 
and his vanity Avas cooled. 

But bumptiousness is elastic in Fiance as in 
England and among the Esquimaux. 

“ W-ell, they are pretty girls,” says he to him- 
self. “I never saAv tAvo such pretty girls togeth- 
er, — they Avill do for me to flirt Avith Avhile I am 
banished to this Arcadia.” (Banished from 
school !) 

And “ aAvful beauty ” being no longer in sight, 
Mr. Edouard resolved he would flirt Avith them 
to their hearts’ content. 

But there are ladies Avith whom a certain pre- 
liminary is required before you can flirt Avith 
them, You must be on speaking terms Avitli 
them first, Hoav AAms this to be managed ? 

“Oh, it AAmuld come somehoAv or other if he 
Avas always meeting them ; and really a man that 
is harassed, and AA'orked as I am, requires some 
agreeable recreation of this sort. 

“Etc.” 

He used to AA'af^'h at his Avindow Avith a tele- 
scope, and Avhenever the sisters came out of their 
own grounds, Avhich unfortunately AAms not above 
three times a Aveek, he Avould throAV himself in 
their Avay by the merest accident, and pay them 
a dignified and courteous salute, Avhicli he had 
carefully got up before a mirror in the privacy of 
his OAvn chamber. 

In return he received tAA'o reverences that Avere, 
to say the least, as dignified and courteous as his 
OAvn, though they had not had the advantage of 
a special rehearsal. 

So far so good. But a little circumstance 
cooled our Adonis’s hopes of turning a boAving 
acquaintance into a speaking one, and a speaking 
into a flirting. 

There Avas a flaAv at the foundation of this pyr- 
amid of agreeable sequences. 

Studying the faces of these courteous beauties, 
he became certain that no recognition of his 
charming person mingled Avith their repeated acts 
of politeness. 

Some one of their humbler neighbors had the 
grace to salute them Avith the respect due to 
them : this Avas no uncommon occurrence to 
them eA’en noAv. When it did happen, they made 
the proper return. They Avere of too high rank 
and breeding to be outdone in politeness. 

But that the same person met them Avhcnevcr 
they came out, and tliat he Avas handsome and 
interesting, — no consciousness of this jihenome- 
non beamed in those charming countenances. 

Citizen Riviere Avas first piqued and then be- 
gan to laugh at his Avant of courage, and on a 
certain day Avhen his importance Avas viA’idly 


12 


WHITE LIES. 


])i esent to him he took a new step towards mak- 
ing this agreeable acquaintance : he marclied up 
to the Chateau de Beaurepaire and called on the 
baroness of that ilk. 

He sent up his name and office with due pomp. 
Jacintha returned with a note black-edged : — 
Highly flattered by Monsieur de Riviei'e's visit, 
the baroness informed him that she received none but 
old acquaintances in the jtresent grief of the family 
and of the kingdom.'^ 

Young lliviere was cruelly mortified by this re- 
buff. He went off hurriedly, grinding his teeth 
with rage. 

“ Cursed aristocrats ! Ah ! we haA'e done well 
to pull you down, and vre will have you lower 
still. IIow I despise myself for giving any one 
the chance to aftVont me thus ! The haughty old 
fool! if she had known her interest, she would 
have been too glad to make a powerful friend. 
These Koyalists are in a ticklish position : I 
can tell her that. But stay, — she calls me De 
liiviere. She does not know who I am then ! 
Takes me for some young . aristocrat I Well 
then after all, — but no! that makes it worse. 
She implies that nobody without a ‘ De ’ to 
their name would have the presumption to visit 
her old tumble-down house. Well, it is a les- 
son ! I am a Kepublican, and the Common- 
wealth trusts and honors me ; yet I am so un- 
grateful as to go out of the way to be civil to her 
enemies, — to Royalists ; as if those worn-out 
creatures had hearts, — as if they could compre- 
hend the struggle that took ])lace in my mind be- 
tween duty and generosity to the fallen, before I 
could make the first overture to their acquaint- 
ance, — as if they could understand the politeness 
of the heart, or any thing nobler than curving and 
ducking, and heartless etiquette. This is the 
last notice I will ever take of that family, that 
you may take 3'our oath of ! ! ! !” 

He walked home to the town very fast, his 
heart boiling and his lips compressed, and his 
brow knitted. 

Just outside the town he met Josephine and 
Laure de Beaurepaire. 

At the sight of their sweet faces his moody 
brow cleared a little, and he was surprised into 
saluting them as usual, only more stiffly, when 
lo ! from one of the ladies there broke a smile so 
sudden, so sweet, and so vivid, that he felt it hit 
him on the eyes and on the heart. 

His teeth unclenched themselves, his resolve 
dissolved, and another came in its place. Noth- 
ing shonld prevent him from penetrating into that 
fortified castle, which contained at least one sweet 
creature who had recognized him, and given him 
a smile brimful of sunshine. 

That night he hardly slept at all, and woke 
very nearly if not quite in love. 

Such was the power of a smile. 

Y’et this young gentleman had seen many 
smilers, but to be sure most of them smiled with- 
out effect, because they smiled eternally ; they 
seemed cast with their mouths open, and their 
])retty teeth forever in sight, which has a sadden- 
ing influence on a man of sense, — when it has 
any. 

But here a pensive fi\ce had brightened at sight 
of him ; a lovely countenance on which circum- 
stances, not Nature, had imi)ressed gravity, had 
sprung back to its natural gayety for a moment, 
and for him. 


Difficulties spur us whenever they do not check 
us. 

Rly lord sat at his wundow with his book and 
telescope for hours every day. 1 

Alas I mesdemoiselles did not leave the j)rem- 
ises for three days. | 

But on the fourth industry was rewarded : he i 
met them, and, smiling himself by anticipation, 
it was his fate to draw from the lady a more ex- 
quisite smile than the last. 1 

Smile the second made his heart beat so he 
could feel it against his w-aistcoat. 

Beauty is power : a smile is its sword. These ; 
two charming thrusts subdued if th.cy did not | 
destroy Publicola’s wrath against the baroness, 
and his heart was now all on a glow. A i)assing j 
glimpse two or three times a week no longer sat- ! 
isfied its yearning. There was a little fellow 
called Dard who went out shooting with him in 
the capacity of a beater, — this young man seemed 
to know a great deal about the family. He told 
him that the ladies of Beaurejiaire went to IMass 
every Sunday at a little church two miles oft’. 
The baroness used to go too, but now they have 
no carriage she stays at home. She won't go to 
church or anywhere else now she can’t drive up 
and have a blazing lackey to hand her out, — 

Aristo t'a.”* 

Riviere smiled at this demonstration of plebeian : 
bile. 

Next Sunday saw him a political renegade. 
He failed in a prime article of Republican faith. 
He went to church. 

The Republic had given up going to church ; ; 
the male part of it in particular. 

Citizen Riviere attended church and there wor- 
shipped — Cupid. He smarted for this. The 
young ladies went with higher motives, and took 
no notice of him. They lowered their long silken , 
lashes over one breviary, and scarcely observed i 
the handsome citizen. | 

Meantime he, contemplating their pious beautv 
with earthly eyes, tvas drinking long draughts of 
intoxicating passion. 

And when after the service they each took an 
arm of St. Aubin, and he, with the air of an ad- 
miral convoying two ships choke-full of specie, 
conducted his precious charge awaj' home, our 
young citizen felt jealous, and all but hated the 
worth}’ doctor. : 

One day Riviere was out shooting, accompanied 
by Dard. 

" A covey of partridges got up wild, and Avent 
out of bounds into a field of late clover. 

“ It is well done, citizen,” shouted little Dard, 

“ at present Ave are going to massacre them.” 

“ But that is not my ground.” 

“ No matter: it belongs to Beaurepaire.” 

“The last people I should like to take a libertv 
with.” 

“ You must not be so nice ; they have no game- 
keeper noAv to interfere Avith us : they can’t afford 
one. Aha ! aristocrats ! The times are changed 
since your pigeons used to devastate us, and Ave 
durst not shoot one of the marauders, — the very 
pheasants are at our mercy now.” 

‘ ‘ The more ungenerous Avould it be of us to 
take adA'antage.” 

“Citizen, I tell 3’ou every body shoots over 
Beaurepaire. ” 


Aristocrat, go to ! 


WHITE LIES. 


13 


“ Oh, if every body does it — I 

In short, Hard prevailed. A small amount of i 
logic suffices to prove to a man of one-and-twenty 
that it is moral to follow his birds. 

Our hero had his misgivings ; but the game 
was abundant, and tamer than elsewhere. 

In for a penny in for a pound. The next time 
they went out together, I blush to say he began 
with this very field of clover, and killed two brace 
in it. It was about four o’clock of this day when 
the sportsman and his assistant emerged from the 
fields upon the high road between Beaurepaire 
and the village, and made towards the latter. 

They had to pass Bigot’s auberge, a long low 
house all across which from end to end was 
printed in gigantic letters : — 

“ ICI ON LOGE A PIED ET A CIIEVAL.”* 

“■ Here one lodges on foot and liorseback." 

Opposite this Dard halted and looked wistful- 
ly in his superior’s face, and laid his hand pa- 
thetically on his centre. 

“ What is the matter? Are you ill?” 

“Very ill, citizen.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“The soldier’s gripes,” replied his vulgar little 
party, “and, citizen, only smell; the soup just 
coming off the fire.” 

This little Dard resembled (in one particular) 
Cardinal Wolsey, as handed down to us by the 
immortal bard, and by the painters of his day : — 

“He was a man of an unbounded stomach.” 

He had gone two hours past his usual feeding- 
time, and was in pain and affliction. 

Riviere laughed and consented. 

“We will have it in the porch,” said he. 

The consent was no sooner out of his mouth 
than Dard dashed wildly into the kitchen. 

Riviere himself was not sorry of an excuse to 
linger an . hour in a place were the ladies of 
Beaurepaire might perhaps pass and see him in 
a new costume, — his shooting cap and jacket, 
adorned with all the paraphernalia of the sport, 
which in France are got up with an eye to orna- 
ment as well as use. 

The soup w’as brought out, and for several 
minutes Dard’s feelings were too great for utter- 
ance. 

But Riviere did not take after the great cardinal, 
especially since he had fallen in love. Pie soon 
dispatched a frugal meal ; then went in and got 
some scraps for the dog, and then began to lay 
tlie game out and count it. He emptied his own 
pocket and Dard’s game-bag, and all together it 
made a good show. 

The small citizen was now in a fit state to ar- 
ticulate. 

“ A good day’s work, citizen,” said he, stretch- 
ing himself luxuriously, till he turned from a 
rotundity to an oval ; “ and most of it killed on 
the lands of Beaurepaire, — all the better.” 

“You appear not to love that family, Dard.” 

“Your penetration is not at fault, citizen. I 
do not love that family,” w'as the stern reply. 

Edouard, for a reason before hinted at, was in 
no hurry to leave the place, and the present seem- 
ed a good opportunity for pumping Dard. He 
sent therefore for two pipes; one he pretended 


* What a row the latter customers must make going up 
to bcdl 


to smoke, the other he gave Dard: for this 
shrcNvd young personage had observed that these 
rustics, under the benign influence of tobacco, 
were placidly reckless in their revelations. 

“By-the by, Dard, (puff), why did you say 
you dislike that family ?” 

“Because — because I can’t help it ; it is strong- 
er than I am. 1 hate them, aristo — vaT (puft'.j 

“ But why ? — why ? — why ?” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! good, you demand why ? — (puff). 
Well, then, because they impose upon Jacintha. ’ 
“Oh !” 

“ And then she imposes upon me.” 

“Even now I do not quite understand. Ex- 
plain, Dard, and assure yourself of my sympa- 
thy ” (puff). 

Thus encouraged, Dard became loquacious. 

“ Those Beaurepaire aristocrats,” said he, with 
his hard peasant good sense, “are neither one 
thing nor the other. They can not keep up no- 
bility, they have not the means, — they will not 
come down oft* their perch, they have not the 
sense. No, for as small as they are, they must 
look and talk as big as ever. They can only af- 
ford one serv'^ant, and I don’t believe they pay 
her, but they must be attended on just as obse- 
quious as when they had a dozen. And this is 
fatal to all us little people that have the misfor- 
tune to be connected with them.” 

“ Why, how are you connected with them?” 

“By the tie of auction.” 

“I thought you hated them.” 

“ Clearly ; but I have the ill luck to love Ja- 
cintha, and she loves these aristocrats, and makes 
me do little odd jobs for them and here Dard’s 
eye suddenly glared with horror. 

“ Well ! what of it ?” 

“ What of it, citizen, what? you do not know 
the fatal meaning of those accursed words ?” 

“Why, it is not an obscure phrase. 1 never 
heard of a man’s back being broken by little odd 
jobs.” 

“Perhaps not his back, citizen, but his heart ; 
if little odd jobs will not break that, why, noth- 
ing will. Torn from place to place, and from 
trouble to trouble : as soon as one tiresome thing 
begins to go a bit smooth, off to a fresh plague, 
— a new handicraft to torment your head and 
your fingers over every day : in-doors Avork when 
it is dry, out-a-doors when it snoAvs, — and then 
all bustle, — no taking’s one Avork quietly, the 
only AA'ay it agrees Avith a felloAv: no rejiose. 

‘ Milk the coaa--, Dard, but look sharp ; for the 
baroness’s chair Avants mending, — take these slops 
to the pig, but you must not AA’ait to see him 
enjoy them ; you are wanted to chop billets for 
me.’ Beat the mats, — take doAvn the curtains, 
— AA'alk to church (best part of a league) and heat 
the peAV cushions, — come back and cut the cab- 
bages, paint the door, and Avheel the old lady 
about the terrace, rub quicksih-er on the little 
dog’s back : mind he don’t bite you to make him- 
self sick ! repair the ottoman, roll the gravel, 
clean the kettles, carry half a ton of Avater up 
three pair of stairs, trim the turf, prune the vine, 
drag the fish-pond, and Avhen you are there, go 
in and gather A\'ater-lilies for Mademoiselle Jo- 
sephine Avhile you are droAvning the puppies ; 
that is little odd jobs. May Satan tAvist her 
neck who inA’ented thern !” 

“Very sad all this,” said young RiA’iere, as 
graA'ely as he could ; “ but about the family.” 


14 


WHITE LIES. 


“I a7?i, citizen. When I go into their kitchen 
to court Jacintha a bit, instead of finding a good 
supper there, which a man has a right to, court- 
ing a cook, if I don’t take one in my pocket, there 
is no supper, not to say supper, for either her or 
me. I don’t call a salad and a bit of cheese- 
rind — supper ! Beggars in silk and satin I call 
them. Every sou they have goes on to their 
backs, instead of into their bellies. ” 

“Nonsense, Dard. I know your capacity, 
but you could not eat a hole in their income, 
that ancient family. ” 

“ I could eat it all, and sit here. Income ! I 
would not change incomes with them if they’d 
throw me in a pancake a day. I tell you, citi- 
zen, they are the poorest family for leagues 
round ; not that they need be quite so poor, if 
they could swallow a little of their pride. But 
no, they must have china, and ])late, and fine 
linen, at dinner ; so their fine plates are always 
bare, and their silver trays empty. Ask the 
butcher, if you don’t believe me I 

“You ask him whether he does not go three 
times to the smallest shop-keeper, for once he 
goes to Beaurepaire. Tlieir tenants send them a 
little meal and eggs, and now and then a hen, 
because they must ; their great garden is chock- 
full of fruit and vegetables, and Jacintha makes 
me dig in it gratis, — and so they muddle on. 
And then the baroness must have her coffee, as 
in the days of old, and they can’t afford to buy 
it, — so they roast, — haw ! haw ! — they roast a lot 
of horse-beans that cost nothing, and grind them, 
and serve up the liquor in a silver coj'eiiere, on a 
silver salver. Aristo va." 

“ Is it possible ? — reduced to this ! — oh I” 

“Perdition seize them! why don’t they melt 
their silver into soup, — why don’t they sell the 
superfluous and buy the grub ; and 1 can’t see 
why they don’t let their house and that accursed 
garden, in which I sweat gratis, and live in a 
small house, and be content with as many serv- 
ants as they can pay wages to.” 

“Dard,” said Riviere, thoughtfully, interrupt- 
ing him, “is it really true about the beans ?” 

“I tell you I have seen Mademoiselle Laure 
doing it for the old woman’s breakfast; it was 
Laure invented the move. A girl of nineteen 
beginning already to deceive the world. But 
they are all tarred with the same stick. Aristo 
m.” 

“Dard, you are a brute !” 

“ IMe, citizen ?” 

“You ! there is noble poverty, as well as no- 
ble wealth. I might have disdained these peo- 
ple in their prosperity, but I revere them in their 
affliction.” 

“I consent,” replied Dard, very coolly. 
“ That is your affair ; but permit me,” and here 
he clenched his teeth at remembrance of his 
wrongs, “on my own part, to say that I will no 
more be a scullery-man wdthout wages to these 
high-minded starvelings, these illustrious beg- 
gars.” Then he heated himself red hot. “ I 
will not even be their galley-slave. Next, I 
have done my last little odd job in this world,” 
yelled the now infuriated “ All is end- 
ed. Of two things one, — either Jacintha quits 
those aristos, or I leave Jacin — Eh ? — ah ! — 
oh ! — ahem ! IIow — ’ow d’ye do, Jacintha ?” and 
his roar ended in a Avhine, as when a dog runs 
barking out and receives in full career a cut from 


his master’s whip, and his generous rage turns to 
whimper then and there. “I was just talking 
of you, Jacintha,” faltered Dard, in conclusion. 

“I heard you, Dard,” replied Jacintha, slow- 
ly, quietly, grimly. 

Dard from oval shrank back to round. 

The person whose sudden appearance at the 
door of the porch reduced the swelling Dard to 
his natural limits, moral and corporeal, was a 
strapping young w'oman, with a comely, peasant 
face, somewhat freckled, and a pair of large 
black eyes, surmounted by coal-black brows that 
inclined to meet upon the bridge of the nose. 
She stood in a bold attitude, her massive but 
well- formed arms folded so that the pressure of 
each against the other made them seem gigantic, 
and her cheek pale with wrath, and her eyes glit- 
tering like basilisks’ upon citizen Dard. Had 
petulance mingled with her wrath. Riviere would 
have howled with laughter at Dard’s discomfit- 
ure, and its cause ; but a handsome woman boil- 
ing with suppressed ire has a touch of the terri- 
ble, and Jacintha’s black eyes and lowering black 
brows gave her, in this moment of lofty indigna- 
tion, a grander look than belonged to her. So 
even Riviere put down his pipe, and gazed up in 
her face with a shade of misgiving. 

She now slowly unclasped her arms, and, with 
her great eye immovably fixed on Dard, she 
pointed with a commanding gesture towards 
Beaure])aire. Citizen Dard was no longer mas- 
ter of his own limbs ; he was even as a bird fas- 
cinated by a rattlesnake; he rose slowly, with 
his eyes fastened to hers, and was moving off 
like an ill-oiled automaton in the direction in- 
dicated ; but at this a suppressed snigger began 
to shake Riviere’s whole body till it bobbed up 
and down on the seat. That weakened the spell : 
Dard turned to him ruefully. 

“There, citizen,” he cried, “do you see that 
imperious gesture ? Now I’ll tell you what that 
means, — that means you promised to dig in the 
aristocrat’s garden this afternoon, — so march ! 
Here, then, is one that has gained nothing by 
kings being put down, for I am ruled with a rod 
of iron. Thank your stars, citizen, that you are 
not in my place. ” 

“Dard,” retorted Jacintha, “if )"ou don’t like 
your place, you can quit it. I know two or three 
that will be glad to take it. There, say no 
more; now I am here I will go back to the vil- 
lage, and we shall see whether all the lads recoil 
from a few little jobs to be done by my side, and 
paid by my friendship.” 

“No! no! Jacintha; don’t be a fool! I am 
going ; there, I am at your service, my dear 
friend. Come !” 

“ Go then ; you know what to do.” 

“ And leave you here ?’’ 

“ Yes,” said Jacintha. “ I must speak a word 
to monsieur, — you have rendered it necessary.” 

The subjugated one crept to Beaurepaire, but 
often looked behind him. He did not relish 
leaving Jacintha Avith the handsome young citi- 
zen, especially after her hint that there were bet- 
ter men in the district than himself. 

Jacintha turned to young Riviere, and spoke 
to him in a very different tone, — coldly, but po- 
litely. 

“Monsieur will think me very hardy thus to 
address a stranger, but I ought not to allow mon- 
sieur to be deceived, and those I seiwe belied.” 


WHITE LIES. 


15 


“There needs no excuse, female citizen. I 
am at your service ; be seated.” 

“Many thanks, monsieur; but I will not sit 
down, for I am going immediately.” 

“ All the worse, female citizen. But I say, it 
seems to me then you heard what Dard was say- 
ing to me. What, did you listen ? Oh, fie ! ” 

“No, monsieur, I did not listen,” replied Ja- 
cintha, liaughtily. “ I am incapable of it ; there 
was no necessity. Dard bawled so loud the 
whole village might hear. I was passing, and 
heard a voice I knew raised so high, I feared he 
was drunk ; I came therefore to the side of tlie 
porch — with the best intentions. Arrived there, 
words struck my ear that made me pause. I 
was so transfixed I could not move. Tims, quite 
in spite of myself, I suffered the pain of hearing 
his calumnies ; you see, monsieur, that I did not 
play the spy on you ; moreover, that character 
would nowise suit with my natural disposition. 
I heard too your answer, which does you so much 
credit, and I instantly resolved that you should 
not be imposed upon.” 

“ Thank you, female citizen.” 

“Neither the family I serve, nor myself, are 
reduced to what that little fool described. I 
ought not to laugh, I ought to be angry ; but 
after all it w^as only Dard, and Dard is a notori- 
ous fool. There, monsieur,” continued she, gra- 
ciously, “ I will be candid, I will tell you all. 
It is perfectly true that the baron contracted 
debts, and that the baroness, out of love for her 
children, is paying them off as fast as possible, 
that the estate may be clear before she dies. It 
is also true that these iieavy debts can not be 
paid off without great economy. But let us dis- 
tinguish. Prudence is not poverty; rather, my 
young monsieur, it is the thorny road to wealth. ” 

“That is neatly expressed, female citizen !” 

“Would monsieur object to call me by my 
name, since that of citizen is odious to me and to 
most women ?” 

“Certainly not. Mademoiselle Jacintha, I shall 
even take a pleasure in it, since it wnll seem to 
imply that we are making a nearer acquaintance, 
mademoiselle.” 

‘ ‘ Not mademoiselle, any more than citizen. I 
am neither demoiselle, nor dame, but plain Ja- 
cintha.” 

“No! no! no! not plain Jacintha ! Do you 
think I have no eyes then, pretty Jacintha?” 

“Monsieur, a truce to compliments! Let us 
resume !” 

“ Be seated, then, pretty Jacintha!” 

“ It is useless, monsieur, since I am going im- 
mediately. I will be very candid with you. It 
is about Dard having no supper up at Beaure- 
paire. This is true. You see I am candid, and 
conceal nothing. I will even own to you that 
the baroness, my mistress, would be very angry 
if she knew supper was not provided for Dard ; 
in a word, I am the culprit. And I am in the 
right. Listen. Dard is egoist. You may even, 
perhaps, have yourself observed this trait.” 

“ Glimpses of it — ha ! ha ! ha ! — he ! ho !” 

“Monsieur, he is egoist to that degree that he 
has not a friend in the world, but me. I forgive 
him, because I know the reason ; he has never 
had a headache or a heartache in his life.” 

“ I don’t understand you, Jacintha.” 

“Monsieur, at your age there are many things 
a young man does not understand. But, though 


I make allowance for Dard, I know what is due 
to myself. Yes, he is so egoist, that, were I to 
fill that j)aunch of his, I should no longer know’ 
whether he came to Beaurepaire for me or for 
himself. Now Dard is no beauty, monsieur ; 
figure to yourself that he is two inches shorter 
than I am.” 

“ 0 Heaven ! he looks a foot.” 

“ He is no scholar neither, and I have had to 
wipe up many a sneer and many a sarcasm on 
i his account; but up to now’ I have always been 
able to reply that this five feet tw’o inches of ego- 
ism loves me disinterestedly ; and the moment I 
doubt this point I give him his conge ^ — poor little 
fellow ! Now you comprehend all, do you not ? 
Confess that I am reasonable. ” 

'‘‘‘Parbleu! I say, I did not think your sex had 
been so sagacious.” 

“ You saw me on the brink of giving the poor 
little being his dismissal?” 

“ I saw and admired. Well, then, female 
cit — ah! pardon — Jacintha: so then the family 
at Beaurepaire are not in such straits as Dard 
pretends?” 

“Monsieur, do I look like one starved?” 

“By Jove, no! — by Cei’es, I mean !” 

“Are my young mistresses wan — and thin — 
and hollow-eyed ?” 

“Treason ! — blasphemy ! — ah ! no. By Venus 
and Hebe, no !” 

Jacintha smiled at this enthusiastic denial, and 
also because her sex smile when w’ords are used 
they do not understand, — guess wdiy ! 

She resumed ; 

“When a cup ovei’flow’S it can not be empty; 
those have enough who have to spare ; now how 
many times has Dard himself sent or brought a 
weary soldier to our kitchen by Mademoiselle 
Laure’s own orders.” 

“ Ah ! I can believe it.” 

“And how many times have I brought a bot- 
tle of good Medoc for them from the baroness’s 
cellar!” 

“You did W’ell. I see; Dard’s egoism blind- 
ed him : they are prudent, but neither stingy nor 
poor. All the better. But stay ! — the cofi'ee — • 
the beans.” 

Jacintha colored, and seemed put out, but it 
w'as only for a moment ; she smiled good-hu- 
moredly enough, and put her hand in her pocket 
and drew out a packet. 

‘ ' What is that ?” 

“Permit me; it is coffee, and excellent if I 
may judge by the perfume ; you have just bought 
it in the village ?” 

Jacintha nodded. 

“ But the beans !” 

“ The beans ! — the beans ! Well — he ! he ! — 
Monsieur, w’e have a little merry angel in the 
house called Mademoiselle Laure. She set me 
one day to roast some beans, — the old doctor 
wanted them for some absurd experiment. Dard 
came in, and seeing something cooking, ‘What 
are they for ?’ said he, ‘ w’hat in Heaven’s name 
are they for?’ His curiosity knew no bounds. 

I was going to tell him, but Mademoiselle Laure 
gave me a look. ‘ To make the family coffee, to 
be sure,’ says she ; and the fool believed it.” 

Biviere and Jacintha had a laugh over Dard's 
credulity. 

“Well, Jacintha, thank Heaven! Dard is 
mistaken ; and yet I am going to say a foolish 


IG 


WHITE LIES. 


thing; do you know I half regret they are not 
as poor, no, not quite, but nearly as poor, as he 
described them ; for then — ” 

“What then?” 

“ You need not be angry now.” 

“Me, monsieur? One is in no haste to be 
angiy with such a face as yours, my young mon- 
sieur.” 

“Well, then, I should have liked them to be 
a little poor, that I might have had the pleasure 
and the honor of being useful to them.” 

“ How could you be of use to them?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know, — in many ways, — es- 
pecially now I have made your acquaintance, 
you would have told me what to do. I would 
not have disobeyed you, for you are a treasure, 
and I see you love them sincerely ; it is a holy 
cause ; it would have been, I mean ; and we 
should have been united in it, Jacintha.” 

“Ah, yes! as to that, yes.” 

“We would have concerted means to do them 
kindness secretly, — without hurting their pride. 
And then I am in authority, Jacintha.” 

“ I know it, monsieur. Dard has told me.” 

“ In great authority, for one so young. They 
are Royalists, — my secret protection might have 
been of w'onderful service to them, and I could 
have given it them without disloyalty to the 
state; for, after all, what has the Republic to 
dread from w^omen ?” 

Through all this, which the young fellow de- 
livered not flowingly, but in a series of little 
pants, each from his heart, J acintha’s great black 
eye dwelt on him calm but secretly inquisitive, 
and on her cheek a faint color came and went 
tw'o or three times. 

“These sentiments do you honor, my pretty 
monsieur ” (dw^elling tenderly on the pretty). 

“ And so do youi's to you,” cried the young 
man, warmly. “ Let us be friends, us tw'o, 
who, though of different parties, understand one 
another. And let me tell you. Mademoiselle the 
Aristocrat, that we Republicans have our virtues 
too.” 

‘ ‘ Henceforth I will believe this for your sake, 
my child.” 

“ I am going to tell you one of them.” 

“Tell me.” 

“It is this, — we can recognize and bow to 
virtue in whatever class we find it. I revere you, 
cit — ahem! — henceforth Jacintha is to me a 
W'ord that stands for loyalty, fidelity, and un- 
selfish affection. These are the soul of nobility, 
— titles are its varnish. Such spirits as you, I 
say, are the ornaments of both our sexes, of 
every rank, and of human nature. Therefore 
give me your pretty brown hand a moment, that 
1 may pay you a homage I would not offer to a 
selfish, and by consequence a vulgar duchess.” 

Jacintha colored a little; but put out her 
hand with a smile, and with the grace that seems 
born w'ith Frenchwomen of all classes. 

Riviere held the smiling peasant’s hand, and 
bowled his head and kissed it. 

A little to his sui-prise, the moment he re- 
laxed his hold of it, it began to close gently on 
his hand and hold it, and even pressed it a very 
little. lie looked up, and saw a female phe- 
nomenon. The smile still lingered on her lip, 
but the large black eyes were troubled, and soon 
an enormous tear quietly rolled out of them and 
ran down her tanned cheek. 


The boy looked wistfully in her face for an ex- 
planation. 

She replied to his mute inquiry by smiling, 
and pressing his hand gently, in which act anoth- 
er tear welled quietly up, and rippled over, and 
ran with a slant into the channel of the first. 

The inexperienced boy looked so sad at this 
that she pressed his hand still more, and smiled 
still more kindly. Then Edouard sat, and be- 
gan to w'atch with innocent curiosity the tears 
arrive thus, tw'O a minute, without any trouble, 
while the mouth smiled and the hand pressed 
his. 

At last he said, in a sort of petting tone, — 
“ Ciying, Jacintha?” 

“ No, my friend, — not that I am aware of.” 

“Yes, 3'ou are, — good! here comes another.” 

“ Am I, dear ! — it is impossible.” 

“ I like it, — it is so pretty. I am afraid it is 
my fault. By the by, what is it for?” 

‘ ‘ My friend, perhaps it is that you praised me 
too warmly, monsieur ; these are the first words 
of sympathy that have ever been spoken to me 
in this village, above all, the first words of good- 
will to the family I love so.” 

“ Yes ! you do love them, and so do I.” 

“ Thank you ! thank you !” 

“What witchcraft do they possess? They 
make me, you, and, I think, every honest heart, 
their friend.” 

“Ah, monsieur, do not be offended, but be- 
lieve me it is no small thing to be an old famil}’. 
There, you see, I do not weep ; on the contrary, 
I discourse. My grandfather served a baron of 
Beaurepaire. My father was their gamekeeper, 
and fed to his last hour from the baron’s plate ; 
he was disabled by ague for many years before 
he died, was my poor father ; ray mother died 
in the house, and was buried in the sacred ground 
near the family chapel. Y’'es, her body is aside 
theirs in death, and so was her heart while she 
lived. They put an inscription on her tomb 
praising her fidelity and pi'obity. Do you think 
these things do not sink into the heart of the 
poor? — praise on her tomb, and not a word on 
their own, but just the name, and when each 
was born and died, you know; Ah ! the pride 
of the mean is dirt, but the pride of the noble is 
gold ! 

“For, look you, among parvenus* I should 
be a servant, and nothing more; in this proud 
family I am a humble friend ; of course they are 
not always gossiping with me like vulgar masters 
and mistresses, — if they did, I should neither re- 
spect nor love them ; but they all smile on me 
whenever I come into the room, even the baron- 
ess herself. I belong to them, and they belong 
to me, by ties without number, by the years 
themselves, — reflect, monsieur, a century, — by 
the many kind words in many troubles, by the 
one roof that sheltered us a hundred years, and 
the grave where our bones lie together till the 
day of God.” 

Jacintha clasped her hands, and the black 
eyes shone out warm through their dew. 

Riviere’s glistened too. 


* The French peasant often thinks half a sentence, and 
utters the other half aloud, and so breaks air in the mid. 
die of a thought. Probably Jacintha’ s whole thought, if 
we had the means of knowing it, would have run like 
this : “ Besides, I have another reason. I could not be so 
comfortable rayiclf elsewhere, — for, look you — ” 


17 


WHITE LIES. 


“ It is well said,” he cried ; “ it is nobly said ! 
But, permit me, these are ties that owe their 
force to the souls they bind. How often have 
such bonds round human hearts proved ropes of 
Sand. They grapple you like hooks of steel, — 
because you are steel yourself to the backbone. I 
admire you, cit — Jncintha dear. Such women 
as you have a great mission in France just now.” 

“ Is that true ? What can women do?” 

Bring forth heroes ! Be the mothers of 
great men, — the Catos and the Gracchi of the 
future.” 

Jacintha smiled. She did not know the Grac- 
chi and their political sentiments ; and they 
sounded well. “ Gracchi !” a name with a ring 
to it. People of distinction, no doubt. 

“ That would be too much honor,” replied she, 
modestly. ‘ ‘ At present I must say adieu ! ” 
and she moved off an inch at a time, and with 
an uncertain, hesitating manner, looking this way 
and that “ out of the tail of her eye,” as the Ital- 
ians and Scotch phrase it. 

Riviere put no interpretation on this. 

“ Adieu, then, if it must be so,” said he. 

She caught sight of the game laid out : on this 
excuse she stopped dead short. 

She eyed it wistfully. 

Riviere caught this glance. “ Have some of 
it,” cried he, “ do have some of it.” 

“ What should I do with game ?” 

“ I mean for the chateau.” 

“ They have such quantities of it.” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! no doubt. All the tenants send it, I 
suppose.” 

“ Of course they do.” 

“ What a pity ! It is then fated that I am not 
to be able to show my good-will to that tamily, 
not even in such a trifle as this.” 

Jacintha wheeled suddenly round on him, and 
so by an instinct of female art caught off its 
guard that face which she had already openly 
perused. 

This done, she paused a moment, and then 
came walking an inch at a time back to him ; 
entered the porch thoughtfully, and coolly sat 
down. At first she sat just opposite Riviere, but 
the next moment, reflecting that she was in sight 
from the road, she slipped into a corner, and there 
anchored. Riviere opened his eyes, and while 
she w'as settling her skirts he was puzzling his 
little head. 

“ How odd, ” thought he. “ So long as I ask- 
ed her to sit down, it was always, ‘ No, I am go- 

ing-’” 

“ Yes, my friend, you have divined it I” 

“Oh, have I? — ah, yes — divined what ?” 

“ That I am going to tell you the truth. Your 
face as well as your words is the cause ; oh yes, 
1 will tell you all !” 

“Is it about Beaurepaire ?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you did tell me all; those were your 
very words.” 

“ It is possible ; but all I told you was — in- 
exact. ” 

“ Oh no, Jacintha, that can not be. I felt 
truth in every tone of your voice. ” 

“ That was because you are true, and innocent, 
and pure. Forgive me for not reading you at a 
glance. Now I will tell you all.” 

“ Oh do ! pray do !” 

“ Listen then ! ah, my friend, swear to me by 


that sainted woman, your mother, that you will 
never reveal what I trust you with at this mo- 
ment I” 

“Jacintha, I swear by my mother to keep 
your secret.” 

“ Then, my poor friend, what Dard told you 
was not altogether fiflse.” 

“Good Heavens! Jacintha.” 

“ Though it was but a guess on his part ; for 
I never trusted my own sweetheart as now I trust 
a stranger. 

“ You that have shown such good sentiments 
towards us, oh, hear and then tell me, can noth- 
ing be done ? 

“No, don’t speak to me, — let me go on before 
my courage dies ; yes, share this secret with me, 
for it gnaws me, it chokes me. 

“To see what I see every day, and do what I 
do, and have no one I dare breathe a word to ; oh, 
it is very hard. 

“Nevertheless, see on what a thread things 
turn : if one had told me an hour ago it was you 
I should open my heart to ! 

“ My child, my dear old mistress and my sweet 
young ladies are — ah ! no, I can't ! I can’t ! 

“ What a poltroon I am. Yes I thank you, 
your hand in mine gives me courage : I hope I 
am not doing ill. They are not economical. 
They are not stingy. They are not paying oft' 
their debts. My friend, the baroness and the 
demoiselles de Beaurepaire — are paupers.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Paupers ?” 

“Alas!” 

“ Members of the nobility paupers ?” 

“ Yes ; for their debts are greater than their 
means ; they live by suft’erance, — they lie at the 
mercy of the law, and of their creditors ; and 
every now and then these monsters threaten, us, 
though they know we struggle to give them their 
due.” 

“ What do they threaten ?” 

“To petition government to sell the chateau 
and lands, and pay them, — the wretches !” 

“The hogs !” 

“ And then, the worst of it is, the family can’t 
do any thing the least little bit mean. I was in 
the room when M. Perrin, the notary, gave the 
baroness a hint to cut down every tree on the 
estate and sell the timber, and lay by the money 
for her own use. She heard him out, and then, 
oh, the look she gave him, — it withered him up 
on his chair. 

“ ‘I rob my husband's and my Josejfiiine’s estate 
of its beauty ! cut down the old trees that show 
the chateau is not a thing of yesterday, like your 
Directory, your Republic, and your guillotine!’ 

“ So then. Monsieur Perrin, to soften her, said : 
‘ No, madame, spare the ancient oak of course, 
and indeed all the very old trees ; but sell the 
others.’ 

“ ‘The others? what, the trees that my own 
husband planted ? and why not knock down my 
little oratory in the park, — he built it. The 
stones would sell for something, — so would Jo- 
sephine’s hair and Laure’s. You do not know, 
perhaps, each of those young ladies there can sit 
down upon her back hair. Monsieur, I will nei- 


18 


AVIIITE LIES. 


ther strip the glory from my (laughters’ heads, nor 
from the ancient lands of Beaurepaire, — nor hal- 
low some Kepublican’s barn, pigsty, or dwelling- 
house, with the stones of the sacred place where I 
pray for my husband’s soul.’ 

‘ ‘ Those were her words. She had been sitting 
quite quiet like a cat, watching for him. Slie 
rose up to speak, and those words came from her 
like puffs of dame from a furnace. You could 
not forget one of them if you lived ever so long, 
lie hasn’t come to see us since then, and it’s six 
mouths ago.” 

“ I call it false pride, Jacintha.” 

‘“Do you? then I don’t,” said Jacintha, firing 
up. 

“ Well, no matter; tell me more.” 

“ I will tell you all. I have promised.” 

“Is it true about the beans ?” 

“It is too true.” 

“But this coffee that you have just bought ?” 

“I have not bought it; I have embezzled it. 
Every now and then I take a bunch of grapes 
from the conservatory. I give it to the grocer’s 
wife. Then she gives me a little coffee, and says 
to herself, ‘ That girl is a thief.’ ” 

“More fool she. She says nothing of the sort, 
you spiteful girl.” 

“Then I secretly flavor my poor mistress’s 
breakfast with it.” 

‘ ‘ Secretly ? But you tell Mademoiselle Laure. ” 

“ How innocent you are ! Don’t you see that 
she roasts beans that her mother may still think 
she drinks coffee ; and that I flavor her rubbish 
on the sly, that Mademoiselle Laure may fancy 
her beans have really a twang of coffee ; and, for 
aught I know, the baroness sees through us both, 
and smacks her lips over the draught to make us 
all happy ; for women are very deep, my young 
monsieur, — you have no idea how deep they are. 
Yes, at Beaurepaire we all love and deceive one 
another.” 

“You make my heart sick. Then it was un- 
true about the wine?” 

“No, it was not; we have plenty of that. 
The baron left the cellar brimful of wine. There 
is enough to last us all our lives ; and, while Ave 
have it, Ave Avill give it to the brave and the poor.” 

“ And pinch yourseLes ?” 

“And pinch ourselves.” 

“Whv don’t they SAA^ap the Avine for necessa- 
ries ?” 

“ Because they could not do a mean thing.” 

“Where is the meanness? Am I the man to 
advise a mean thing?” 

“Ah, no, monsieur. Well, then, they AA'on’t 
do a thing other barons of Beaurepaire neA’er did ; 
and that is Avhy they sit doAvn to a good bottle of 
Avine from their OAvn cellar, and to grapes and 
peaches from their OAvn garden, and even truffles 
from their OAvn beech coppice, and good cream 
from their OAvn coav, and scarce tAvo sous’ Avorth 
of bread, and butcher’s meat not once a fort- 
night. ” 

“In short, they eat fifteen francs’ Avorth of 
luxuries, and so liaA’e not ten sous for AA’holesome 
food.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Yes, monsieur?” cried ELiere, spitefully 
mocking her; “and don’t you see this is not 
economy, but extravagance? Don’t you see it is 
their duty as Avell as their interest to sell their 
Avine, or some of it, and their fruit, and buy eat- 


able.s, and CA'en put by money to j^ay their 
debts?” 

“ It Avould be if they Avere vulgar people ; but 
these are not grocers nor cheap Johns ; these are 
the high noblesse of France.” 

“ These are a pack of fools,” roared the irri- 
tated Republican, “and you are as bad as they.” 

“I do not assert the contrary,” replied Jacin- 
tha, humbly and loA'ingly, disarming his Avmth 
Avith a turn of the tongue. “My friend,” she 
continued in the same tone, “ at present our coav 
is in full milk ; so that is a great help ; but Avhen 
she goes dry, God knows Avhat Ave shall do, .for I 
don’t.” And Jacintha turned a face so full of 
sorroAv on him, that he Avas ashamed of having 
been in a rage Avitli her absurdity. 

“And then to come by and hear my OAA-n 
SAveetheart, that ought to be on my side, running 
doAvn those saints and martyrs to a stran — to 
our best friend.” 

“Poor Jacintha!” 

“Oh no; don’t, don’t! already it costs me a 
great struggle not to giA^e Avay.” 

“Indeed! you tremble. ” 

“Like enough, — it is the neiwes. Take no 
notice, or I could not ansAver for myself. ]\ly 
heart is like a lump of lead in my bosom at this 
hour. No! it is not so much for Avhat goes on 
up at the chateau. That Avill not kill them. Love 
nourishes as AA^ell as food; and Ave all loA-e one 
another at Beaurepaire. It is for the Avhisper I 
have just heard in the village.” 

“What ? — Avhat ?” 

“ That one of these cruel creditors is going to 
haA'e the estate and chateau sold.” 

“ Curse him !” 

“ He might as AA^ell send for the guillotine and 
take their liA-es at once. You look at me. You 
don’t knoAV my mistress as I do. Ah! butchers, 
if it is so, you Avill take nothing out of that house 
but her corpse. And is it come to this? The 
great old family to be turned adrift like beggars 
to Avander over the Avorld? Oh, my poor mis- 
tress ! Oh, my pretty demoiselles ! that I play- 
ed Avith and nursed ever since I Avas a child ! — I 
Avas just six Avhen Josephine Avas born, — and that 
I shall love till my last breath.” 

The y(?ung Avoman, torn by the violence of a 
feeling so long pent up in her oAvn bosom, fell to 
panting, and laughing, and sobbing, and trem- 
bling violently. 

The statesman, Avho had passed all his short 
life at school and college, aa’us frightened out of 
his Avits, and ran to her side, and took hold of 
her and pulled her, and cried, “Oh, don’t, Ja- 
cintha; you Avill kill yourself, you Avill die! — 
this is frightful, — help here! help!” 

Jacintha put her hand to his mouth, and, Avith- 
out leaving off her hysterics, gasped out, “Ah! 
don’t expose me.” 

8o then he didn’t knoAv Avhat to do ; but he 
seized a tumbler, and Avith trembling hand filled 
it Avith Avine, and threAv himself on his knees, and 
forced it betAveen her lips. All she did Avas to 
bite a piece out of the glass as clean as if a dia- 
mond had cut it. This did her good, — destruc- 
tion of sacred household property gaA’e her an- 
other turn. “There, pA e broke your glass iioaa’,” 
she cried Avith a marvellous change of tone ; and 
she came to, and sobbed and cried reasonably. 

The other young thing of the tender, though 
impetuous heart, set to comfort her. 


WHITE LIES. 


10 


“Poor Jacintha! clear Jacintha ! I will be a ’ 
friend both to them and you. There is a kiss 
not to cry so.” Oh, oh, oh! And lo, and be- I 
hold 1 he burst out crying himself. | 

This gave Jacintha another turn. 

“ Oh, my son ! don’t you cry ! I will never 
s-s-sufFer that.” 

“How can I help it? Oh! It is you make 
me, — sobbing and weeping like that.” 

“Forgive me, little heart. I will be m-raore 
reasonable, not to afflict you. Oh, see, 1 leave 
off! Oh ! I Avill take the wine.” 

Edouard put the other side of the glass to her 
li]is, and she supped a teaspoonful of the wine. 
This was her native politeness, not to slight a 
remedy he had offerecl. Then he put down the 
glass, and she drew his head lightly to her bosom, 
and he felt her quietly crying. 8he was touched 
to the core by his sympathy. As for him, he 
was already ashamecl of the ■weakness he could 
not quite master, and was not sorry to hide his 
face so agreeably. 

‘ ‘ Oh, dear ! Now’ — oh ! — you are not to fancy 
(1 can hear your heart beat where I am, Jacin- 
tha) I ever cry. I have not done such a con- 
temptible thing since I w^as a boy.” 

“I believe it. Forgive me. It was all my 
fault. It is no discredit. Ah ! no, my son ; 
those tears do you honor, and make the poor Ja- 
cintha your friend.” 

These foolish drops did not long quench our 
statesman’s and puppy’s manly ardor. 

“Come, come!” he cried, “let us do some- 
thing, not sit blubbering.” 

“ Ah ! if we could do any thing,” cried Jacin- 
tha, catching fire at him. 

“Why, of course we can. People never know 
what they can do till they try. I shall think of 
something, you may depend. ” (Vanity revived.) 

“And I must run to Beaurepaire ; they will 
think I am lost.” 

“Oh, Jacintha!” 

“What?” 

“ You wdll take some of the game now.” 

“ That I will — from you.” 

“Thank you. Quick — quick — for goodness’ 
sake. Here, take these four birds. That is 
right : pin up your apron, — that makes a capital 
pocket.” 

“ The hare wmuld be more nourishing than the 
birds,” said Jacintha, timidly. 

“ You are to have the hare as well, of course ; 
send me down Dard ; he shall take her up.” 

“ No ! no ! Dard and I are bad friends. I 
will ask no favor of him. He shall be my sup- 
pliant all this day, not I his. Look at my arm, 
do you think that is afraid of a hare ?” 

“ Why, it is half as big again as mine, Jacin- 
tha ; for all that, I shall carry the hare up in my 
pocket. France is still France, whatever you 
may think ; a pretty woman must not be. let drag 
a Inire about the nation ; come — ” 

‘ ‘ Surely, monsieur does not think of accom- 
panying me !” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Oh, as for that, I am no prude, — it is a road, 
too, on wdiich one meets no one, — ah bah ! if you 
are not ashamed of me, I am not of you, — al- 
lons.** 

They walked up the road in silence. Riviere 
had something on his mind, and Jaointha was 
demurely watching for it out of the tail of her 


eye. At last, ashamed of going along and not 
saying a word to rustic Hebe, he dropped out 
this in an absent sort of way : “ I shall never 
know by your manner whether you are telling the 
truth or — the reverse.” No answer. . 

“You do it beautifully.” No answ'er. 

“ So smooth and convincing.” No answ’er. 

“ Seriously, then, I used to think it a crime, a 
sordid vice, — but now I see that even a false- 
hood, coming from a pure heart, is purified, and 
becomes virtuous, pious.” 

“Never!” 

“ And useful.” 

‘ ‘ What use were mine ? I had to unpick them 
the next minute, — and do you think I did not 
blush like fire while I was eating my own words 
one after another?” 

“I did not see you.” 

“A sign I blushed inside, and that is worse. 
My young monsieur,” continued Jacintha, grave- 
ly, “ listen to me. A lie is always two things, — 
a lump of sin, and a piece of folly. Yes I women 
are readier and smoother at that sort of work 
than men, — all the worse for them. Men lie at 
times to gain some end they are hard bent on ; 
but their instinct is to tell the truth, those that 
are men at all. But women, especially unedu- 
cated ones like me, run to a lie the first thing, 
like rats to a hole. Now, mark the consequence : 
women suffer many troubles, great aud small ; 
half of these come to them by the will of God ; 
but the other half they make for themselves by 
their silly want of truth and candor — there!” 

“Bless my soul! here is a sermon. Why, how’ 
earnest you are !” 

“Yes, I am in earnest, and you should not 
mock me. Consider, I am many years older 
than you, — you are not twenty, I think, and I 
am close upon five-and-twenty, — and I have seen 
ten times as much life as you, though I ha\e 
lived in a village.” 

“Don’t be angry, Jacintha; I listen to every 
word.” 

“ I am in earnest, my friend, because you ter- 
rified me when you smirked like that and talked 
of beautiful lies, pious lies (why not clean filth ?), 
and then quoted me to prove it. Innocence is 
so easily corrupted. And I could not sleep at 
night if my tongue had corrupted one so innocent 
and good and young as you, my dear.” 

“Now, don’t you be alarmed,” cried the 
statesboy, haughtily, “you need not fear that I 
shall ever take after women in that or any thing 
else. ” 

“ Mind, they will be the first to despise you if 
you do, — that is their way, — it is one of them 
that tells you so.” 

‘ ‘ Set your mind at ease, fair moralist ; I shall 
think of your precepts. I will even note down 
one of the brilliant things you said and he took 
out his tablets. “ ‘A lie is a — lump of sin, and 
a bit — no — a piece of folly, eh?’ ” 

“That is it!” cried Jacintha, gayly, her anx- 
iety removed. 

“I did not think vou were five-and-twenty, 
though.” 

“I am then, — don’t 3’ou believe me?” 

“Why not? Indeed how could I disbelieve 
you after your lecture ?” 

“ It is well,” said Jacintha, with dignity. 

She was twenty-seven by the parish books. 

Riviere relapsed into his reverie. 


20 


WHITE LIES. 


This time it was Jacintiui who spoke firet. 

“You forgive me for breaking the glass, mon- 
sieur, and making you cry ?” 

“ Bother the glass, — what little things to think 
of ; wliile 1 — and as for the other business — you 
did it foirly ; you made a fool of me, but you be- 
gan with yourself, — jdease to remember that.” 

“Oh, a woman cries as she spits, — that goes 
for nothing, — but it is not fair of her to make a 
man cry just because he has a feeling heart.” 

“Stop! — ‘A woman — cries — as she spits!’ 
Why, Jacintha, that is rather a coarse sentiment 
to come from you, who say such beautiful things, 
and such wise things — now and tlien.” 

“What would you have?” replied Jacintha, 
with sudden humility. “ When all is done I am 
but a domestic ; I am not an instructed person.” 

“On reflection, if coarse, it is succinct. I had 
better note it down with the other — no — I shall 
remember this one without.” 

“You may take your oath of that. Good 
things have to be engraved on the memory, — 
bad ones stick there of themselves. Monsieur, 
we are now near Beaurepaire. ” 

“So I see. Well?” 

“ I don’t come out every day, — if monsieur has 
any thing important to say to me, now is surely 
the time.” 

“ x\h ! What do you mean ?” 

“I mean that all this cliat is not what you 
want to say to me. There is something you have 
half a mind to tell Jacintha, and half a mind not. 
Do you think I can’t read your face by this time ? 
There, I stop to hear it before it is too late. 
Come, out with it.” 

“ It is all very well to say out with it, but I 
have not the courage.” 

“It is then that you do not feel I am your 
friend.” 

“Don’t speak so, and don’t look so kindly, or 
I sliall tell YOU. Jacintlia — ” 

“]My child.” 

“ It is going to be secret for secret between us 
two, — is not that nice ?” 

“ Delicious !” 

“ Ay ; but you must swear as I did, for my 
secret is as im])ortant as yours, — every bit.” 

“ I swear !” 

“ Then, Jacintha, I am in love !” 

And, having made the confession blushing, he 
smiled a little pompously, for he felt it was a step 
that stamped him a man. 

Jacintha’s face expanded with sacred joy at 
the prospect of a love affair ^ then she laughed 
at his conceit in fancying a boy’s love could be 
as grave a secret as hers ; finally she lowered her 
voice to a whisper, though no creature was in 
sight. 

“Who is it, dear ?” and her eye twinkled, and 
her ear cocked, and all the woman bristled. 

“Jacintha, can’t you guess?” and he looked 
down. 

“IMe! How should I know which way your 
fancy lies?” 

But even as she said these words her eye seem- 
ed to give a flash inward, and her vivid intelli- 
gence seized the clue in a moment. 

“ I was blind!” she screamed, “I was blind ! 
It’s my 3 '^oung lady. I thought it was very odd 
you should cry for me, and take such an interest 
— ah ! rogue with the face of innocence. But 
how and where was it done ? They never dine 


from home. You have not been two months 
here, — that is what put me off the very idea of 
such a thing. The saints forgive us, he has fall- 
en in love with her in church !” 

“No, no. Why, I have met her eleven times 
out walking with her sister, stupid, and twice 
she smiled on me. Oh, Jacintha ! a smile snch 
as angels smile, — a smile to warm the heart and 
purify the soul, and last forever in the mind.” 

“Well, I have heard say, that ‘man is fire 
and woman tow,’ but this beats all. Ha! ha!’’ 

“ Oh, do not jest ! I did not laugh at you.” 

“I will not be so cruel, so ungr.ateful, as to 
jest. Still, — he! he!” 

“No, Jacintha, it is no laughing matter; I 
revere her as mortals revere the saints. I love 
her so, that, were I ever to lose all hope of her, 
I would not live a day. And now that you have 
told me she is poor and in sorrow, and I think 
of her walking so calm and gentle, — always in 
black, Jacintha, — and h.er low courtesy to me 
whenever we met, and her sweet smile to me 
though her heart must be sad, oh ! my heart 
yearns for her. What can I do for her ? How 
shall I surround her with myself unseen, — make 
her feel that a man’s love waits upon her feet 
every step she takes, — that a man’s love floats in 
the air round that lovely head. And oh, Jacin- 
tha ! if some day she should deign to ask, ‘ Who 
is this, whom as yet I know only by his devo- 
tion ?” 

“ She will ask that question much earlier than 
you seem to think, Innocence.” 

“Will she? bless you, Jacintha; but it is un- 
generous to think of the reward for loving. Oh 
no, I will entertain no selfish motives, I will love 
and prove my love whether there is any hope for 
me or not ; dear Jacintha, is there any hope for 
me, do you think?” 

Now Jacintha could not help fearing there 
was very little, but her heart and his earnest face 
looking into hers would not let her sa\' so. 

“There is hope for all men,” said she. “I 
Avill do all I can for you, and tell you all I see ; 
but after all it must depend on yourself ; only I 
may hinder you from going at it in a hurry and 
spilling the milk forever. After all,” she con- 
tinued, looking at the case more hopefully, “ the 
way to win such ladies as mine is to deserve 
them, — not one in fifty men deserves such as 
they are, but you do. There is not a woman in 
the world that is too good for you.” 

“Ah, Jacintha, that is nonsense. I deeply 
feel my inferiority.” 

“And if you wore, you wouldn’t,” cried the 
sententious maid, one of whose secret maxims 
appears to have been “ point before grammar.” 

“Jacintha, before I go, remember, if any 
thing happens you have a friend out of the 
house.” 

“And you a staunch fiiend in it.” 

“Jacintha, I am too happy; I feel to want 
to be alone with all the thoughts that throng on 
me. Good-bye, Jacintha;” and he was off like 
a rocket. 

“My hare! my hare! my hare!” screeched 
Jacintha, on the ascending scale. 

“Oh, you dear girl! you remember all the 
little things ; my head is in a whirl, — come out, 
hare.” 

“ No !” s^id Jacintha. “ You take her round 
by the back wall and fling her over.’’ 


WHITE LIES. 


21 


Jacintha gave this order in a new tone, — it 
was pleasant ; but there was a little air of au- 
thority now that seemed to say; “I have got 
your secret ; you are in my power, you must 
obey me now, my son ; or — ” 

lliviere did as ordered, and when he came 
back Jacintha was already within the grounds 
of Beaurepaire. She turned and put a finger to 
her lips, to imply dead secrecy on both sides ; 
he did the same, and so the vile conspirators 
parted. 

Puppies, like prisoners and a dozen other 
classes, are of many classes stupidly confounded 
uiuler one name by those cuckoos that chatter 
and scribble us dead, but never think. There 
is the commonplace young puppy, who is only a 
pupi)y because he is young. The fate of this is 
to outgrow his pupjiydom, and be an average 
man, — sometimes wise, sometimes silly, and on 
the whole neither good nor bad. Sir John Guise 
was a puppy of this sort in his youthful day. I 
am sure of it. He ended a harmless bi]3ed : 
witness his epitaph : 

HERE LIES 

Sir John Guise. 

No one laughs ; 

No one cries. 

Wliei'c he is gone. 

And how he fares, 

No one knows, 

And no one cares. 

There is the A'acant puppy, empty of every thing 
but egoism, and its skin full to bursting of that. 
Eye, the color of which looks washed out ; much 
nose, — little forehead, — long ears. 

Young lady, has this sort of thing been asking 
you to share its home and gizzard ? On receipt 
of these presents say “No,” and ten years after 
go on your bended knees and bless me ! Men 
laugh at and kick this animal by turns ; but it is 
Avoman’s executioner. Old age Avill do nothing 
for this but turn it from a selfisli whelp to a sur- 
ly old dog. Unless lieligion steps in, Avhose 
daily Avork is miracles. 

There is the good-hearted, intelligent puppy. 
All ! poor soul, he runs tremendous risks. 

Any day he is liable to turn a hero, a Avit, a 
saint, a useful man. 

Half the heroes that have fallen nobly fighting 
for their country in this Avar and the last, or have 
come back scarred, maimed, and glorious, Averc 
puppies ; smoking, draAvling, dancing from tOAvn 
to tOAvn, and spurring the ladies dresses. 

Tliey changed Avith circumstances, and Avith- 
out difficulty. 

Our good-hearted, intelligent puppy went from 
this intervieAv with a serA'ant-girl — a man. 

He took to his bosom a great and tender 
feeling that never yet failed to ennoble and en- 
large the heart and double the understanding. 

She he loved Avas sad, Avas poor, Avas men- 
aced by many ills ; then she needed a champion. 
He Avould be her unseen friend, her guardian 
angel. A hundred Avild schemes Avhirled in his 
beating heart and brain, as he Avent home on 
Avings. He could not go in-doors. He made 
for a green lane he knew at the back of the vil- 
lage, and there he Avalked up and doAvn for 
hours. The sun set, and the night came, and 
the stars glittered ; but still he Avalked alone, 
inspired, exalted, full of generous and loving 
schemes, and sweet and tender fancies : a heart 
on fire ; and youth the fuel, and the flame A'estal. 


CHAPTER IV. 

This day, so eventful to our ex-puppy’s heart, 
Avas a sad one up at Beaurepaire. 

It AA'as the anniversary of the baron’s death. 

The baroness kept her room all the morning, 
and took no nourishment but one cup of spuri- 
ous coffee Laure brought her. At one o’clock 
she came doAvn-stairs. She did not enter the 
sitting-room. In the hall she found two chap- 
lets of flowers ; they Avere always placed there 
for her on this sad day. She took them in her 
hand, and Avent into the park. Her daughters 
Avatched her from the AvindoAv. She Avent to the 
little oratory that Avas in the park; there she 
found tAvo Avax candles burning, and two fresh 
chaplets hung up. Her daughters had been 
there before her. 

She knelt and prayed many hours for her bus- 
band’s soul ; then she rose and hung up one chap- 
let and came sloAvly atvay Avith the other in her 
hand. 

At the gate of the park filial love met her as 
Josephine, and filial love as Laure Avatched the 
meeting from the AvindoAv. 

Josephine came tOAA’ards her Avith tender anx- 
iety in her sapphire eyes, and Avreathed her arms 
round her, and Avhispered half inquiringly, half 
reproachfidly : — 

“ You have your children still.” 

The baroness kissed her and replied Avith a 
half-guilty manner: — 

“No, Josephine, I did not pray to leave you, 
— till you are happy. ” 

“We are not unhappy Avhile Ave haA'e our 
mother,” replied Josephine, all love and no logic. 

They came tOAvards the house together, the 
baroness leaning gently on her daughter’s elbow. 

BetAveen the park and the angle of the chateau 
AA’as a small plot of turf called at Beaurepaire the 
rieasance, a name that had descended along Avith 
other traditions ; and in the centre of this Bleas- 
ance or Bleasaunce stood a Avonderful oak-tree. 
Its circumference aa'us thirty-four feet. 

The baroness came to this ancient tree, her 
chaplet in her hand. 

The tree had a mutilated limb that pointed to- 
Avards the house. The baroness hung her chap- 
let on this stump. 

The sun Avas setting tranquil and red ; a broad 
ruby streak lingered on the deep green leaves of 
the prodigious oak. 

The baroness looked at it aAvhile in silence. 

Then she spoke sloAvly to the oak, and said, — 

“ You Avere here before us, — you Avill be here 
Avhen Ave are gone.” 

A spasm crossed J osephine’s face, but she said 
nothing. 

'I'hey AA'ent in together. 

We Avill follow them. But first, ere the sun 
is set, stay a feiv minutes and look at the Beaure- 
paire oak, Avhile I tell you the little men knew 
about it, not the thousandth part of Avhat it could 
haA'e told if trees could speak as Avell as breathe. 

The baroness did not exaggerate. The tree 
Avas someAvhat older than even this ancient fami- 
ly. There Avas a cliain of family documents, 
seA'eral of Avhich related incidents in Avhich this 
tree played a part. 

The oldest of these manuscripts Avas Avrittcn by 
a monk, a younger son of the house, about five 
hundred years before our story. This AA'Ould not 


00 


WHITE LIES. 


have helped us much, but luckily the good monk 
was at the pains to collect all the oral traditions 
about it that had come down from a far more re- 
mote antiquity, and, like a sensible man, arrested 
and solidified them by the pen. He had a super- 
stitious reverence for the tree ; and probably this 
too came down to him from his ancestors, as it 
was certainly transmitted by him to the chroni- 
clers that succeeded him. 

The sum of all is this. 

The first Baron of Beaurepaire had pitched his 
tent under a fair oak-tree that stood prope rivuin, 
— near a brook. He afterwards built a square 
tower hard by, and dug a* moat that inclosed 
both tree and tower and received the waters of 
the brook aforesaid. These particulars corre- 
sponded too exactly with the present face of things 
and the intermediate accounts, to leave a doubt 
that this was the same tree. 

In these early days its size seems to have been 
nothing remarkable, and this proves it w^as still 
growing timber. But a century and a half before 
the monk wrote it had become famous in all the 
district for its girth, and in the monk’s own day 
had ceased to grow, but .showed no sign of decay. 
The mutilated arm I have mentioned was once a 
long sturdy bough worn smooth as velvet in one 
part from a curious cause: it ran about as 
high above the ground as a full-sized horse, 
and the knights and squires used to be for- 
ever vaulting upon it, the former in armor ; 
the monk when a boy had seen them do it a 
thousand times. 

The heart of the tree began to go, and then 
this heavy bough creaked suspiciously. In those 
days they did not prop a sacred bough with a 
line of iron posts as now. They solved the diffi- 
culty by cutting this one off within six feet of the 
trunk ; two centuries later, the tree being now 
nearly hollow, a rude iron bracket was roughly 
nailed into the stem, and running out three feet 
supported the knights’ bough ; for so the muti- 
lated limb was still called. 

What had not this tree seen since first it came 
green and tender as a cabbage above the soil, 
and stood at the mercy of the first hare or rabbit 
that should choose to cut short forever its frail 
existence ! 

Since then eagles had perched on its croAvn and 
wild boars fed without fear of man upon its 
acorns. Troubadours had sung beneath it to 
lords and ladies seated around or walking on the 
grass and commenting the minstrels’ tales of love 
by exchange of amorous glances. 

It had seen a Norman duke conquer England, 
and English kings invade France and be crowned 
at Paris. It had seen a woman put knights to 
the rout, and seen God insulted and the warrior- 
virgin burned by envious priests, with the con- 
sent of the curs she had defended and the curs 
she had defeated. 

Mediajval sculptors had taken its leaves, and 
wisely trusting to Nature had adorned many a 
church with those leaves cut in stone. 

Why, in its old age it had seen the rise of 
printing, and the first dawn of national civiliza- 
tion in Europe. It flourished and decayed in 
France; but it grew in Gaul. And more re- 
markable still, though by all accounts it is like to 
see the world to an end, it was a tree in ancient 
history : its old age awaits the millennium : its ■ 
first youth belonged to that great tract of time ; 


which includes the birth of Christ, the building 
of Rome, and the siege of Troy. 

The tree had mingled in the fortunes of the 
family. 

It had saved their lives and taken their lives. 
One Lord of Beaurepaire, hotly pursued by his 
feudal enemies, made for the tree, and hid him- 
I self partly by a great bough, partly by the thick 
I screen of leaves. The foe darted in, made sure 
I he had taken to the house, ransacked it, and got 
into the cellar, where by good luck was store of 
Malvoisie ; and so the oak and the vine saved 
the quaking baron. 

Another Lord of Beaurepaire, besieged in his 
castle, was shot dead on the ramparts by a cross- 
bowman who had secreted himself unobserved in 
this tree a little before the dawn. 

A young heir of Beaurepaire, climbing for a 
raven’s nest to the top of this tree, whose crown 
I Avas much loftier then than now, lost his footing 
and fell, and died at the foot of the tree ; and his 
I mother in her anguish bade them cut dowMi the 
tree that had killed her boy. But the baron, her 
husband, refused, and said what in the English 
of the day would run thus : “ ytte ys eneugh 
that I lose mine sonne, I will nat alsoe lose mine 
Tre.” In the male the solid sentiment of the 
proprietor outweighed the temporary irritation 
of the jjarent. Then the mother, we are told, 
bought fifteen ells of black veh'et, and stretched 
a pall from the knights’ bough across the west 
i side to another branch, and cursed the hand that 
should remoA’e it, and she herself “wolde ncA’er 
passe the Tre neither going nor coming, but went 
still about. ” 

And when she died and should have been car- 
ried past the tree to the park, her dochter did cry 
from a Avindow to the bearers, “Goe about! goe 
about!” and they Avent about: and all the com- 
pany. And in time the veh'et pall rotted, and 
Avas torn and driven aAvay rajiiclis ludihrla veniis ; 
and Avhen the hand of Nature, and no human 
hand, had thus flouted and dispersed the trap- 
})ings of the mother’s grief, tAvo pieces Avere ])ick- 
ed up and preseiwed among the family relics; 
and the black veh'et had turned a rusty red. 

So the baroness did nothing ncAv in this family 
Avhen she hung her chaplet on the knights’ bough'; 
and, in fact, on the Avest side, about eighteen 
feet fi-om the ground, there still mouldered one 
corner of an achievement an heir of Beaurepaire 
had nailed there two centuries before, Avhen his 
predecessor died : “for,” .said he, “the chateau 
is of yesterday, but the tree has seen us all come 
and go.” The inside of the tree AA'as clean gone ; 
it Avas holloAv as a drum, — not eight inches thick 
in any part ; and on its east side yaAvned a fissure 
as high as a man and as broad as a street door. 
Hard used to Avheel his AvheelbarroAV into the tree 
at a trot, and there leave it. 

In spite of excavation and mutilation, not life 
only but vigor dAvelt in this wooden shell, — the 
extreme ends of the longer boughs Avere fire- 
Avood, toucliAvood, and the croAvn Avas gone time 
out of mind: but narroAv the circle a very little 
to Avhere the indomitable trunk could stilf shoot 
sap from its cruise deep in earth, in there on 
every side burst the green leaves in summer 
countless as the s.and. The leaves carved cen- 
turies ago from these very models, though cut 
in stone, Avere most of them mouldered, blunted, 
notched, deformed, — but the delicate types came 


WHITE LIES. 


Lack M’ith every Kiimmer perfect and lovely as 
^vhen the tree was but their elder brother, — and 
greener than ever: for, from wiiat cause Nature 
onlv knows, the leaves were many shades deeper 
and richer than any other tree could show for a 
liundred miles round, — a deep green, fiery, yet 
soft; and then their multitude, — the staircases 
of foliage as you looked up tlie tree, and could 
scarce catch a glimpse of the sky, — an inverted 
abyss of color, a mound, a dome, of flake em- 
eralds that quivered in the golden air. 

And now the sun sets — the green leaves are 
black — the moon rises — her cold liglit shoots 
across one-half that giant stem. 

How solemn and calm stands the great round 
tower ' of living wood, half ebony, half silver, 
with its mighty cloud above of flake jet leaves 
tinged with frosty fire at one edge ! 

Now is the still hour to repeat in a whisper 
the words of the dame of Beaurepaire: “You 
^vere here before us : you will be here when we 
are gone.” 

Let us leave the hoary king of trees standing 
in the moonlight, calmly defying time, and let 
us follow the creatures of a day ; since what they 
were we are. • 

A spacious saloon panelled : dead but snowy 
white picked out sparingly with gold. Festoons 
of fruit and flowers finely carved in wood on 
some of the panels. These also not smothered 
with gilding, but, as it were, gold-speckled here 
and there, like tongues of flame winding among 
insoluble snow. 

Banged against the walls were sofas and chairs 
eovered with rich stuff’s well worn. And in one 
little distant corner of the long room a gray-hair- 
ed gentleman and two young ladies sitting on 
cane chairs round a small plain table, on which 
burned a solitary candle ; and a little way apart 
in this candle’s twilight an old lady sat in an 
easy-chair, in a deep reverie, thinking of the past, 
scarce daring to inquire the future. 

Josephine and Laure were working, not fancy 
work but needle-work ; Doctor St. Aubin, writ- 
ing. 

Every now and then he put the one candle- 
nearer the girls. They raised no objection, only 
a few minutes after a white hand would glide 
from one or other of them like a serpent, and 
smoothly convey the light nearer to the doctor’s 
manuscript. 

“Is it not supper-time?” inquired the doctor 
at last. 

“One would think not. Jacintha is very 
punctual.” 

“ So slie may be, but I have an inward mon- 
itor, mesdemoiselles ; and, by the way, our din- 
ner was, I think, more ethereal than usual.’’ 

“Hush!” said Josephine, and looked uneasi- 
ly towards her mother. She added in a whis- 
per : “ Wax is so dear.” 

“Wax? — ah! — pardon me,” and the doctor 
1‘etumed hastily to his work. 

Then Laure looked up and said: “I wonder 
Jacintha does not come, — it is certainly past the 
hour and she pried into the room as if she ex- 
pected to see Jacintha on the road. But she 
saw in fact very little of any thing, for the spa- 
cious room was impenetrable to her eye. Mid- 
way from the candle to the distant door its twi- 


23 

light deepened, and all became shapeless and 
sombre. 

The prospect ended half-way sharp and black, 
as in those out-o’-door closets imagined and 
painted by Mr. Turner, whose Nature (Mr. Tur- 
ner’s) comes to a full stop as soon as IMr. Turner 
sees no further occasion for her, instead of melt- 
ing by fine expanse and exquisite gradation into 
genuine distance as Nature does in Claude and 
in Nature. To reverse the picture, standing at 
the door you looked across forty feet of black, 
and the little corner seemed on fire, and the fair 
heads about the candle shone like the heads of 
ISt. Cecilias and Madonnas in an antique stain- 
ed-glass window. 

At last Laure observed the door open, and 
another candle glowed upon Jacintha’s comely 
peasant face in the doorway. She put dowm her 
candle outside the door, and started as the crow 
flies for the other light. 

After glowing a moment in the doorway she 
dived into the shadow and emerged into light 
again close to the table, with napkins on her 
arm. , She removed the work-box reverentially, 
the doctor’s manuscript unceremoniously, and 
proceeded to lay a cloth, in which opefation she 
looked at Josephine a point-blank glance of ad- 
miration ; then she placed the napkins ; and in 
this process she again cast a strange look of in- 
terest upon Josephine. 

The young lady noticed it this time, and look- 
ed inquiringly at her in return, half expecting 
some communication ; but Jacintha lowered her 
eyes and bustled about the table. Then Jose- 
phine spoke to her with a sort of instinct of curi- 
osity, — that this look might find words. 

“Supper is a little late to-night; is it not, 
Jacintha ?” 

“Yes, mademoiselle, I have had more to do 
than usual ;” and with this she delivered another 
point-blank look as before, and dived into the 
palpable obscure and came to light in the door- 
way. 

Josephine. “ Did you see that?” 

Laure. “ What ?” 

Josephine. ‘ ‘ The look she gave me ?” 

Laure. “No. What look?” 

Josephine. “A singular look, a look of curi- 
osity, — one would almost say of admi — but no ; 
that is impossible — ” 

St. Auhin (dryly). “Clearly.” He added 
after a pause: “yet after all it is the prettiest 
face in the room — ” 

“ Doctor,” cried Laure, with fury. 

“My child, I did not see you.” 

‘ And how dare you call my Josephine pret- 
ty? the Madonna pretty ? does that describe her ? 
I am indignant.” 

St. Aubin. “Mademoiselle Laure, permit me 
to observe that, by calling Mademoiselle your 
Josephine, you claim a monopoly that — ahem! 
— can not possibly be conceded. ” 

Zawre (haughtily). “ Why, whose JoseiJiine is 
she but mine 

St. Aubin (after coolly taking a pinch of snufF, 
and seeming to reflect). “Mine.” 

Here a voice at the fireplace put quietly in : 
“Twenty years ago Laure was not born, and 
my good friend there had never see Beaurepaire. 
Whose Josephine was she then, good people ?” 

“Mamma! whose is she now!” and Jose- 
phine was at her mother’s knees in a moment. 


24 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Good !*' said the doctor to Laure. “Sec 
the result of our injudicious competition. A 
third party has carried her off. Is supper never 
coming? Are you not hungry, my child?” 

“Yes, my friend— no ! not very.” 

Alas ! if the truth must be told, they ivere all 
hungry. So rigorous Avas the economy in this 
decayed but honorable house, that the Avax can- 
dles burned to-day in the oratory had scrimped 
their dinner, unsubstantial as it was wont to be. 
Think of that, you in fustian jackets who grum- 
ble on a full belly. My lads, many a back you 
envy, with its silk and broadcloth, has to rob the 
stomach. 

“Ah! here she is.” 

The door opened; Jacintha appeared in the 
light of her candle a moment with a tray in both 
hands ; and approaching was lost to view.. 

Before she emerged to sight again a strange 
and fragrant smell heralded her. All their eyes 
turned with curiosity towards the unwonted odor, 
till Jacintha dawned with three roast partridges 
on a dish. 

They were Avonder-struck. Jacintha’s face 
Avas red as fire, partly Avith cooking, partly Avith 
secret pride and happiness : but she conceal- 
ed it, and indeed all appearance of feeling, un- 
der a feigned apathy. She aA'oided their 
eyes, and resolutely excluded from her face 
every thing that could imply she did not seiwe 
up partridges to this family every night of her 
life. 

The young ladies looked from the birds to her, 
and from her to the birds, in mute surprise, that 
was not diminished by the cynical indifference 
printed on her face. 

“The supper is serv^ed, Madame the Baron- 
ess,” said she, with a respectful courtesy and a 
mechanical tone, and, plunging into the night, 
sAA'am out at her OAvn candle, shut the door, and, 
unlocking her face that moment, burst out radi- 
ant, and Avent doAvn beaming aa ith exultation ; 
and had an agreeable cry by the kitchen fire, the 
result of her factitious and someAvhat superflu- 
ous stoicism up-stairs ; and, the tear still in her 
eye, set to and polished all the copper steiv-pans 
Avith a vigor and expedition unknoAvn to the neAA'- 
fangled domestic. 

“ Partridges, mamma !” cried Laure. “ What 
next?” 

“Pheasants, I hope,” cried the doctor, gayly. 
“ And after them hares ; to conclude Avith royal 
venison. Permit me, ladies.” And he set him- 
self to carve Avith zeal. 

Noav nature is nature, and tAvo pair of violet 
eyes brightened and dAvelt on the fragrant and 
delicate food Avith demure desire. 

For all that, Avhen St. Aubin offered Josephine 
a Aving, she declined it. 

“No partridge?” cried the savant, in utter 
amazement. 

“Not to-day, dear friend, — it is not a feast 
day to-day.” 

“Ah! no; Avhat Avas I thinking of?” said 
the poor doctor. 

“ But you are not to be deprived,” put in Jo- 
sephine, anxiously. “We AA’ill not deny our- 
seh'es the pleasure of seeing you eat some.” 

“What?” remonstrated St. Aubin, “am I 
not one of you ?” 

The baroness had attended to every Avord of 
this. She rose from her chair, and said quiet- 


ly : “Both you and he and Laure aaIII be so 
good as to let me see you eat them,” 

“But, mamma,” remonstrated Josephine and 
Laure in one breath. 

“ Je /e veux,"* Avas the cold reply. 

These Averc AA’ords the baroness uttered so sel- 
dom that they Avere little likely to be disputed. 

The doctor carved and helped the young la- 
dies and himself. 

When they had all eaten a little, a discussion 
Avas observed to be going on betAveen Laure and 
her sister. At last St. Aubin caught these 
Avords : — 

“It Avill be in Aain, eAcn you have not in- 
fluence enough for that, Laure.” 

“ We shall see,” Avas the reply, and Laure put 
the Aving of a ])artridge on a plate, and rose calm- 
ly from her chair. She took the plate and put 
it on the little Avork-table by her mother’s side. 

The others pretended to be all mouths, but 
they Avere all ears. 

The baroness looked in Laure’s face Avith an 
air of Avonder that Avas not very encouraging. 
Then, as Laure said nothing, she raised her aris- 
tocratic hand Avith a courteous but decided ges- 
ture of refusal. 

Undaunted little Laure laid her palm softly 
on the baroness’s shoulder, and said to her as 
firmly as the baroness herself had just spoken : — 

“// le veut, via mere 

The baroness Avas staggered. Then she look- 
ed steadily in silence at the fair young face, — 
then she reflected. At last she said Avith an ex- 
quisite mixture of politeness and affection : — 

“It is his daughter Avho has told me ‘7/ le 
veut r I obey.” 

Laure, returning like a victorious knight from 
the lists, saucily exultant, and Avith only one 
Avet eyelash, Avas solemnly kissed and petted by 
the other tAvo. 

Thus they loved one another in this great old 
falling house. Their familiarity had no coarse 
side. A form, not of custom but aftection, it 
Avalked hand in hand Avith courtesy by day and 
night ; arista va ! 

The baroness retired early to rest this evening. 

She Avas no sooner gone than an earnest and 
anxious conA'ersation took place betAveen the 
sisters. It was commenced in a Ioav tone, not 
to interrupt St. Aubin’s learned lucubrations. 

Josephine. “ Has she heard any thing?” 

Laure. “ About our harsh creditor, — about 
the threatened sale of Beaurepaire? Not that I 
knoAv of. Heaven forbid !” 

Josephine. “Laure, she said some AA'ords to 
me to-day that make me A’ery uneasy, but I did 
not make her any ansAver, She said (Ave Avere 
by the great oak-tree), ‘You Avere here before 
us, — you will be here after us.’ ” 

“Oh, heaven, avIio has told her? Can Ja- 
cintha have been so mad ?” 

“ That faithful creature. Oh, no ! When she 
told me her great anxiety Avas lest my mother 
should knoAv.” 

“ jMay Heaven bless her for having so much 
sense as well as fidelity. The baroness must 
never knoAv this till the danger is past, — poor 
thing ! the daily fear Avould shake her terribly.” 

Josephine. “You have heard Avhat Ave have 
been saying?” 


It is my Avill. 


t It is hla will, my mother. 


WHITE LIES. 


25 


St. Aithin. “ Every word. Let me put away 
this rubbish, in Avbich my liead but not my heart 
is interested, and let us unite heart and hand 
against this new calamity. Wlio has threatened 
to sell Beaurepaire ?” 

Josephine. “A single creditor. But Jacintha 
could not tell me his name.” 

St. Aubin. “That will be easily discovered. 
Now as for those Avords of the baroness, do not 
be disquieted. You have put a forced interpre- 
tation on them, my dear.” 

Josephine. “ Have I, doctor?” 

St. Aubin. “ The baroness is an old lady, con- 
scious of her failing powers.” 

Josephine. “Oli, doctor. I hope not.” 

St. Aubin. “ She stood opposite an ancient 
tree. Something of this sort passed through her 
mind: ‘You too are old, older than 1 am, but 
you will survive me.” 

Laure. “But she said ‘us,’ not ‘me.’” 

St. Aubin. “Oh, ‘us’ or ‘me.’ Ladies are 
not very exact.” 

Josephine. “ W'hat you say is very intelligent, 
my friend ; but somehow that was not what she 
meant.” 

‘‘ It is the simplest interpretation of her words.” 

“1 confess it.” 

“Can you give me any tangible reason for 
avoiding the obvious interpretation ?” 

“ No. Only when you are so well acquainted 
with the face and voice of any one as I am with 
dear mamma’s, you can seize shades of meaning 
lliat are not to be conveyed to anotlier by a bare 
account of the words spoken.” 

“ This is fanciful : chimerical.” 

“ 1 feel it may appear so.” 

Laure. “Not to me, I beg to observe: it is 
quite simple, perfectly notorious, and as clear as 
day.” 

St. Aubin. “To you, possibly, enthusiastic 
maid ; but I have an unfortunate habit of de- 
manding a tangible reason for my assent to any 
given proposition.” 

Laure. “It is an unfortunate habit. Joseph- 
ine dear, tell me now what was the exact feeling 
that our mother gave you by the way she said 
those words.” 

“Yes, dear. Well, then,” — here Josephine 
sliglitly knitted her smooth brow, and said slowly, 
turning her eyes inwards, — “ our mother did not 
intend to compare the duration of our mortal lives 
with that of a tree.” 

‘ ‘ .Pelitio principii, ” said the doctor, quietly. 

‘ ‘ Plait il ? On the other hand, if slie had heard 
our impending misfortune, would she not have 
been less general ? would she not have spoken to 
me, and not to the tree ? I think then that our 
dear mother had a general misgiving, a presenti- 
ment that Ave shall be driA^en from this- beloved 
spot ; and this presentiment found AVords at the 
sight of that old companion of our fortunes ; but 
even if this be the right interpretation, I can not 
see her come so near the actual truth Avithout 
treml)ling ; for I know her penetration ; and oh, 
if it were even to reach her ears that — alas I my 
dear mother.” 

“ It never shall, my little angel, it neA-er shall ; 
to leaA'e Beaurepaire Avould kill the baroness.” 

“ No, doctor, do not say so.” 

I^aure. “Let us figlit against our troubles, 
but not exaggerate them. Mamma AA'ould still 
have her daughters’ love.” 


“It is idle to deceive ourselves,” replied St. 
Aubin. “ The baroness Avould not live a month 
aAvay from Beaurepaire. At her age men ami 
Avomen hang to life by their habits. Take her 
aAvay from her chateau, fi-om the little oratory 
Avhere she prays CA'ery day for the departed, from 
her place in the sun on the south terrace, and 
from all the memories that surround her liere, 
she Avould bow her head and die.” 

Here the •.saraai, seeing a hobby-horse near, 
caught him and jumped on. 

He launched into a treatise upon the A’itality of 
human beings, Avonderfully learned, sagacious, 
and misplaced. He proA^ed at length that it is 
the mind Avhich keeps the body of man alive fur 
so great a length of time as fourscore years. He 
informed them that he had in the earlier ])art of 
his studies carefully dissected a multitude of ani- 
mals, — frogs, rabbits, dogs, men, horses, sheep, 
squirrels, foxes, cats, etc., — and discovered no 
peculiarity in man’s organs to account for liis 
singular longevity, except in the brain or organ 
of mind. Thence he Avent to the longevity of 
men Avith contented minds, and the rapid decay 
of the careworn. He even explained to these 
girls Avhy no bachelor had ever attained the full 
age of man, Avhich ho Avas obliging enough to put 
at one hundred and ten years. A Avife, he ex- 
plained, is essential to vast longevity ; she is the 
receptacle of half a man’s cares, and of two thirds 
of his ill-humor. 

After many such singular Avindings v'ery prop- 
er to a lecture-room, he came back to the baron- 
ess ; on Avhich his heart regained the lost ascend- 
ency OA'er his head, and he ended a tolerably 
frigid discourse in a deep sigh. 

“ Oh, doctor,” cried Laure, “What shall Ave 
do?” 

“I haA'c already made up my mind. I shall 
hav'e an intervioAV Avith Perrin, the notary.” 

“But Ave haA'e oftended him.” 

“ Not mortally. Besides, the baroness Avas in 
the Avrong.” 

“Mamma in the Avrong?” 

“Excusably, but unquestionably. She Avas 
impetuous out of place. Maitre Perrin gaA'e her 
the advice, not of a delicate mind, but of a friend 
Avho had her interest at heart. He is under great 
obligations to this family. He can noAv repay 
them Avithout injury to himself; this is a fligln 
of gratitude of Avhich I belieA'e eA’en a notary ca- 
pable. Are you not of my opinion, mademoi- 
selle ?” 

Josepliine’s reply Avas rather feminine than 
point-blank. 

“ I have already been so unfortunate as to dif- 
fer once Avith my best friend and she loAvered 
her lashes and aAvaited her doom. 

“This dear poltoon,” cried Laure — “speak!” 

“ Well, then, my friend. Monsieur Perrin does 
not inspire me Avith confidence.” 

“ Humph ! haA'eyou heard any thing against 
him ?” 

“ No ; it is only Avhat I liaA'e obseiwed ; let us 
hope I am Avrong. Well, then, Laure, the man’s 
face carries one expression Avhen he is on his 
guard and another Avhen he is not. His A'oice 
too is not frank. It is not a genuine part of him- 
self as yours is, dear doctor — and then it is not 
— it is not one.” 

“ Liable ! has he tAvo A'oices ?” 

“ Yes ! and perhaps more. When he is in this 


23 


WHITE LIES. 


room his voice is — is — what shall I say ? Arti- 
ficial honey ?” 

“Say treacle,” put in Laure. 

“ You have said it, Laure ; that is the very 
word I was searching for ; but out of doors I have 
heard him speak very differently, in a voice im- 
jterious, irascible, I had almost said brutal. Ay, 
and the worst is that bad voice was his own voice.” 

“ How do you know that?” 

“I don’t know how I know it, •dear friend. 
Something tells me.” 

“ However, you can give a tangible reason, of 
course,” said the doctor, treacherously. 

“ No, my friend ; I am not strong at reasons. 
Consider, I have not the advantage of being a 
savant. I am but a woman. My opinion of this 
man is an instinct, not a reason.” 

The doctor’s face was provoking. 

Josephine saw it, but she was one not easily 
))rovoked. She only smiled a little sadly. Laure 
tired up for her. 

“ I would rather trust an instinct of Josephine’s 
than all the reasons of all the savants in France!” 

“Laure!” remonstrated Josephine, opening 
her eyes. 

“llcasons? — straws!” cried Laure, disdain- 
fully. 

“ Hallo !” cried St. Aubin, with a comical 
look. 

“ And there are always as many of these straws 
against the truth as for it. The Jansenists have 
books brimful of reasons. The Jesuits have books 
full against them. The Calvinists and all the 
heretics have volumes of reasons — so thick. Is 
it reason that teaches me to pray to the Madon- 
na and the saints ? and so — Josephine is right 
and you are wrong.” 

“Well jumped. Alas! lam intimidated, but 
not convinced.” 

“Your mistake is replying to her, doctor,” 
said Josepliine ; “ that encourages her — a little 
virago that rules us all with iron. Come here, 
child, and be well kissed foryour effrontery ; and 
now hold your tongue. Tell us your })lan, doctor, 
and you may count on Laure’s co-operation as 
will as mine. It is I who tell you so.” 

“ She is right again, doctor,” said Laure, peep- 
ing at him over her sister’s shoulder. 

St. Aubin, thus encouraged, explained to them 
that he would, without compromising the baron- 
ess, write to Monsieur Perrin, and invite him to 
an interview. The result is certain. This harsh 
creditor will be paid off by a transfer of the loan, 
and all will be well. Meantime there is nothing 
to despond about ; it is not as if several creditors 
were agreed to force a sale. This is but one, 
and the niost insignificant of them all.” 

“Is it? I hope it may be. What makes you 
think so ?” 

“I know it, Josephine.” 

The girls looked at one another. 

“ Oh, you have no rival to fear in me. My 
instincts are so feeble that I am driven for aid 
to that contemptible ally. Reason. Thus it is. 
Our large creditors are men of property, and such 
men let their funds lie unless compelled to move 
them. But the small mortgagee, the needy man, 
who has, periiap.s, no investment to watch but one 
small loan, about which he is as anxious and as 
noisy as a hen with one chicken, — he is the clam- 
orous creditor, the harsh little egoist, who at the 
first possibility of losing a crown piece would 


bring the Garden of Eden to the hammer. Go 
then to rest, my children, and sleep calmly. 
Heaven watches over you, and this gray head 
leaves its chimeras when your happiness is in 
peril.” 

“ And there is no better head,” said Laure, af- 
fectionately, — but she must add saucily, — “ when 
it does come out of the clouds;” and with this 
sauce in her very mouth she inclined her white 
forehead to IMonsieur St. Aubin for his })arting 
salute.* 

He wrote an answer immediately. 

The young ladies retired to rest, greallv reas- 
sured and comforted by their friend’s confidence, 
and he with a sudden change of manner paced 
the apartment nervously till one in the morning. 
His brow was knitted, and his face sad, and if 
his confidence had been real, why, then much of 
it oozed away as soon as he had no one to com- 
fort or confute. 

At one o’clock in the morning he sat down 
and wrote to the notary. His letter, the result 
of much reflection, was tolerably adroit. 

He deplored the baroness’s susceptibility, hint- 
ed delicately that she had in all probability al- 
ready regretted it, and more broadly that he 
had thought her in the wrong from the first. 
If Monsieur Perrin shared in any degree his re- 
gret at the estrangement, there was now an op- 
portunity for him to return with credit to his 
place as friend of the family. And, to conclude, 
the writer sought a personal interview. 

Let us follow' this letter. It was laid on the 
notary’s table the next afternoon. 

As he read it, a single word escaped his lips, 
“ Curious !” 

He wrote an answ'er immediately. 

St. Aubin w’as charmed with his reply, and 
its promptness. He drew the girls aside, and 
read them the note. They listened acutely. 

Monsieur Perrin had never taken serious of- 
fense at the baroness's impetuosity for ivhich so 
many excuses were to he made. It teas i7i jmessing, 
indiscreetly , perhaps^ her interest, that he had been 
so unforttmate as to give her pain, lie now hoped 
]\lonsieur St. Aubin ivould show him some way of 
furthering those interests without annoying her. He 
would call either on the doctor or on the bui'oness 
at any hour that should be named." 

“There,” cried St. Aubin, “is not that the 
letter of a friend, and an honest nntn, or, at 
all events, an honest notary?” 

“ Oh yes ! but is it not too pure ?’’ suggested 

* The sparring between St. Aubin and Laure de Beaurc- 
paire was not exactly what it looks on paper at first glance. 
But we soon come to the limit of the fine arts. The art 
of writing, to wit, tells you what people said, but not how ; 
yet “how” makes often all the difference. 'When these 
two fenced in talk, the tones and the manner were full of 
affection and playfulness, and robbed of their barb words 
which, coarsely or unkindly uttered, might have stung. 
Look at those two distant cats fighting. They roll over 
one another in turn; they bite with visible fury, they 
scratch alternate. Tigers or theologians could do no more. 
In about two minutes a black head, a leaf torn out of Br. 
Watts, and a tabby tail, will strew the field, sole relics of 
this desperate encounter. Now go nearer; you shall fin 1 
that in these fierce bites the teeth are somehow kept back 
entirely, and the scratching is tickling done Avith a vel- 
vet paw, not the poisoned iron claw. The fighting re- 
solves itself into two elements, play and affection. These 
combatants are never strange cats, or cats that bear each 
other a grudge. And this mock fighting is a favorite gam- 
bol Avilh many animals; Avith none more so than Avith 
men and Avomen, especially intelligent and finely tem- 
pered ones. Be careful not to do it AA'ith a fool. I don’t 
tell you Avhy, because the fool Avill show you. 


WHITE LIES. 


Josepliine. “ Such an entire abnegation of self, 
— is that natural, — in a notary, too, as you ob- 
serve ?” 

“ Childishness ! this is a polite note, as well 
as a friendly one, — politeness always speaks a 
language the opposite of egoism, and, conse- 
quently of sincerity, — it is permitted even to a 
notary to be polite.” 

“That is true : may I examine it?” 

Josephine scanned it as if she would extract 
the hidden soul of each particular syllable. She 
returned it with a half-sigh. I wish it had a 
voice and eyes, then I could perhaps — But let 
us iiopc for the best. ” 

“I mean to,” cried the doctor, cheerfully. 
“ The man will be here himself in forty-eight 
hours. I shall tell him Ito be sure and bring 
his voice and his eyes with him ; to these he 
will add of his own accord that little pony 
round as a tub he goes about on, — another in- 
separable feature of the man.” 

So the manly doctor kept up their young spirits 
and beguiled their anxious hearts of a smile. 

“ Curious !” said the notary. 

An enigmatical remark ; but I almost think I 
catch the meaning of it : it must surely have 
had some reference to the following little scene 
that passed'just five days before the notary re- 
ceived the doctor’s letter. 

Outside a small farm-house, two miles from 
Bsaurepaire, stood a squab pony, dun-colored, 
with a white mane and tail. He was hooked by 
the bridle to a spiral piece of iron driven into 
the house to hang visitors’ nags from by the 
bridle. 

The farmer was a man generally disliked and 
feared, for he was one of those who can fawn or 
bully as suits their turn ; just now, however, he 
was in competent hands. The owner of the squab 
dun was talking to him in his own kitchen as 
superior are apt to speaks to inferiors, and as 
superior very seldom speaks to any body. 

The fiirmer, for his part, was waiting his time 
to fire a volley of oaths at his visitor, and kick 
him out of the house. Meantime, cunning, 
first, he was watching to find out what could be 
the notary’s game. 

“ So you talk of selling up my friend the bar- 
oness?” said Perrin, haughtily. 

“Well, notary,” replied tlie other, coolly, 
my “half-year’s interest has not been paid; it 
is due this two months.” 

“ Have you taken any steps ?” 

“Not yet; but I am going to the mayor this 
afternoon, if you have no objection ” (this with 
a marked sneer). 

“You had better break your leg, and stay 
at home. ’ 

“ Why so ? if you please.” 

“Because, if you do, you are a ruined man.” 

“I’ll risk that. Haw! haw! Y’our friends 
will have to grin and bear it, as we used them 
under the kings. They have no one to take their 
part against me that I know of, without it is 
you ; and you are not the man to pay other folks’ 
debts, I should say.” 

“They have a friend who will destroy you 
if you are so base as to sell Beaurepaire for 
your miserable six thousand francs.” 

“Who k the man? if it is not asking too 
much.” 

“You will know all in good time. Let us 


[ speak of something else. Y'oii owe twelve thou- 
sand francs to Fran9ois, your cousin.” 

Bonard changed color. 

“How do you know that? He promised 
faithful not to tell a soul.” 

“When he promised, he did not know you in- 
tended to get drunk and call his wife an impo- 
lite name.” 

“ I never got drunk, and I never called the 
jade an ugly name.” 

“ You lie, my man.” 

“ Well, monsieur, suppose I did ; hard words 
break no bones ; he need not talk, — he thrashes 
her, tlie pig.” 

“ She says not. But that is not the point ; 
there are women who like to be thrashed ; but 
there is not one who likes to be called titles re- 
flecting on her discretion. So Madame Brocard 
has given you a lesson not to injure the weak, — 
especially the weak that are strong, — women, to 
wit. This one was strong enough to make 
Francois sell your debt to an honest man, who 
is ready to receive payment at this hour.” 

“Is it a jest ? How can I pay tivelve thou- 
sand francs all in a moment? Let him give me 
proper time, and it is not twelve thousand francs 
that will trouble Jacques Bonard, you know that, 
monsieur.” 

“I know that to pay it you must sell your 
licks, your horses, your chairs and tables, and 
the bed you sleep on.” 

“ Y’'es, I can I yes, I can ! especially if I have 
your good word, monsieur ; and I know' you 
will — Ten to one if my new' creditor (curse 
hini'l) is not known to you.” 

“He is.” 

“ There then it is all right. Every man in the 
department respects you. I'll be bound you can 
turn him round your finger, whoever he is.” 

“lean.” 

“There is a w'eight off my stomach. Well, 
monsieur, now first of all wdio is the man, — if it 
is not asking too much?” 

“It is I.” 

“ Y^ou?” 

“I!” 

“Ugh!” 

“ Well, sir, what is to be done ?” 

“ Can you pay me ?” 

“ That I can ; but you must give me time.” 

“ If you will give me security, not else.” 

“And I will. What security w'ill you have ?” 

The notary answered this question by action. 
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a 
parchment. 

The fiirmer's eyes dilated. 

“ This is a bond by which you give me a hold 
upon your Beaurepaire loan.” 

“ Not an assignment?” gasped Bonard. 

“Not an assignment. On the contrary, a 
bond that prevents your either assigning or sell- 
ing your loan, or forcing Beaurepaire to a sale, 
— penalty, tw'enty thousandfrancs in either case.” 

The fiirmer groaned. 

“Call a w’itness, and sign.” 

Bonard w'ent to the window, opened it, and 
called to a man in the farm-yard ; “ Here, 
Georges, step this way.” 

As he turned round from the window the first 
thing he saw was the notary jmlling another doc- 
j ument out of his other pocket. Paper this time 
instead of parchment. 


28 


WHITE LIES. 


The farmer’s eye dilated. j 

“ Not another ! ! saints of Paradise, not an- 
other ! ! !” he yelled. 

“ This is to settle the interest, — nothing more.” 

“ What interest ? Ours ? Why, the interest 
is settled, — it is three per cent.” 

“Was! but I am not so soft as to lend my 
money at three per cent. Are you ? You bleed 
the baroness six per cent.” 

“ What has that to do with it? I take what 
I can get. But I can’t six per cent.” 

“ You are not required. I am not an usurer. 

1 lend at live per cent, what little 1 lend at ail, 
and I'll trouble you for your signature.” 

“ No ! no !” cried the farmer, standing at bay, 

“ You can’t do that. Three per cent, is the terms 
of the loan. Hang it, man, stand to your own 
bargain I” 

The notary started up like Jack in the box, 
with startling suddenness and energy. 

“Pay me my twelve thousand francs!” cried 
he, fiercely, or I empty your barns and gut your 
house before you can turn round. You can’t sell 
Beaurepaire in less than a month, but I’ll sell you 
up in forty-eight hours.” 

“Sit ye down, sir! for Heaven’s sake sit ye 
down, my good monsieur, and don’t talk like 
that, — don’t quarrel with an honest man for a , 
thoughtless word. Ah! here is Georges. Step 
in, Georges, and see me sign my soul and en- 
trails away at a sitting — ugh!” I 

Five minutes more, the harsh creditor, the I 
parish bully, was obsequiously holding the no- I 
tary’s off stirrup. He mounted the squab dun * 
and cantered off with the parchment sword, and * 
the paper javelin in the same pocket now, — and 
tacked together by a pin. 


CHAPTER V. I 

Eight days after the above scene, three days | 
after the notary received St. Aubin’s letter and , 
said “Curious,” came an autumn day, refresh- 
ing to late turnips, but chilling and depressing i 
to human hearts, and death to those of artists, i 
A steady, even, down pour of rain, with gusts 
of wind that sent showers of leaves whirling | 
from the orange-colored trees. 

Black double-banked clouds promised twenty- 
four hours’ moist misery ; and as for the sun, 
hang me if you could guess on which side of the 
house he was, except by looking first at a clock, 
then at an almanac. 

Even the sorrows and cares of the decaying 
house of Beaurepaire grew darker and heavier 
this day. Even Laure, the gayest, brightest, 
and most hopeful of the party, sat at the win- 
dow, her face against the pane, and felt lead at 
her young heart. 

While she sat thus, sad and hopeless, instinct- 
ively reading the future lot of those she loved in 
those donble-bankcd clouds, her eye was sudden- 
ly attracted by a singular phenomenon. A man 
of gigantic height and size glided along the pub- 
lic road, one half of his huge form visible above 
the high palings. 

He turned in at the great gate of Beaurepaire, 
and lo the giant was but a rider with a veiled 
steed. Clear of the palings, he proved to be 
an enormous horseman’s cloak, — a pyramid of 


brown cloth with a hat on its apex, and a pony's 
nose protruding at one b.ase, tail at the other. 
Rider’s face did not show, being at the top of the 
cone but inside it. 

At tlie sight of this pageant Laure could hard- 
ly suppress a scream of joy. 

Knight returning from Crusades was never 
more welcome than this triangle of broadcloth 
was to her. 

She beckoned secretly to St. Aubin. He 
came, and at the sight went hastily down and or- 
dered a huge wood fire in the dining-room, now 
little used. He then met the notary at the hall 
door, and courteously invited liiin in. 

“But stay! — your pony, — what shall we do 
with him?” 

“Give yourself n% trouble on his account, 
monsieur ; he will not stir from the door ; he is 
Fidelity in person.” 

St Aubin apologized for not taking his visitor 
up to the baroness; “But the business is one 
that must be kept from her knowledge.” At 
this moment the door opened, and Josephine 
glided in. St. Aubin had not expected her, 
but he used her skillfully; “But here,” said he 
“is Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire come to bid 
you welcome to a house from which you have 
been too long absent. Mademoiselle, now that 
you have welcomed our truant friend, be so good 
as to describe to him the report which I only 
know from you.” 

Josephine briefl}’ told what she had heard 
from Jacintha, that there was one cruel credi- 
tor who tlnxjatened to sell the chateau and lands 
of Beaurepaire. 

“Mademoiselle,” said the notary, gravely, 
“that report is true. He openly bragged of his 
intention more than a week ago.” 

“Ah! we live so secluded, — you hear every 
thing hefore us. Well, Monsieur Perrin, time 
was you took an interest in the fortunes of this 
family — ” 

“Never more than at the present moment, 
monsieur ;” in saying this he looked at Joseph- 
ine. 

“The more to your credit, monsieur.” 

“ Do you happen to know what is the sum 
due to this creditor?” 

“ I do. Six thousand francs.” 

St. Aubin looked at Josephine triumphantly. 

“ One of the very smallest creditors then.” 

“ The smallest of them all,” replied the notary. 

Another triumphant glance from St. Aubin. 

' “ For all that,” said Monsieur Perrin, thought- 

fully, “ I wish it had been a larger creditor, and 
a less unmanageable man. The other creditors’ 
could be influenced by reason, by clemency, by 
good feeling, but this is a man of iron ; humph, 

■ — may 1 advise !” 

’ “It will be received as a favor.” 

! “ Then, — pay this man off at once, — have noth- 

ing more to do with him.” 

His hearers opened their eyes. 

: “ Where are we to find six thousand francs ?” 

The notary reflected. “I have not at this 
moment six thousand francs, but I could contrib- 
ute two thousand of the six.” 

“ We thank you sincerely, but — ” 

‘ ‘ There then ; I must contrive three thousand. ” 

St. Aubin shook his head: “We can not 
find three thousand francs.” 

“ Then we must try and prevail on Bonard to 


WHITE LIES. 


move no farther for a time ; find in the interval 
we must find another lender, and transfer the 
loan.” 

“Ah ! my good Monsieur Perrin, can you do 
this for us?” 

“ I can try ; and you know zeal "oes a good 
way in business. I will be frank with you ; the 
character of this creditor gives me some uneasi- 
ness ; but courage ! all these fellows have secret 
histories, secret wishes, secret interests, that we 
notaries can penetrate, — when we have a suffi- 
cient motive to penetrate such rubbish, — but as it 
is not a matter to be trilled with, forgive me if I 
bid you and mademoiselle an unceremonious 
adieu. ” 

He rose with zeal depicted on his face. 

“ Such a day for yon to be out on our service,” 
cried Josephine, putting up both her hands the 
palms outward, as if disclaiming the weather. 

“ If it rained, hailed, and snowed, I should not 
feel them in your cause, mademoiselle,” cried the 
chivalrous notary ; and he took by surprise one 
of Josephine’s white hands, and kissed it with 
the deepest respect ; then made olF all in a bustle. 

St. Aubin followed him to the door, and lo! 
“ Fidelity in person” was gone. 

St. Aubin was concerned. 

The notary was a little surprised, but he gave 
a shrill whistle, and awaited the result ; another, 
and this time a long tail came slowly out of the 
Beaurepaire oak ; the pony’s quarters followed ; 
but, when his withers were just clear, the cold 
rain and wind struck on his loins, and the quad- 
ruped’s bones went slowly in again. The tail had 
the grace to stay out ; but hair is a vegetable, 
and vegetables like rain. The notary strode to 
the tree, and went in and backed “ demifidelity 
in ])erson ” out. The pyramid of cloth remount- 
ed him, and away they toddled ; Laure, in spite 
of her anxiety, giggling against the window ; for 
why, the foreshortened animal’s fore legs being 
hidden by the ample folds, the little cream-color- 
ed hind legs seemed the notary’s own. 

iMeantime St. Aubin was in earnest talk with 
Josephine in the hall. 

“ Well, that looks like sincerity !” 

“ Yes ! you did not see the signal I made you.’’ 

“ No ! what signal ? why ?” 

“ His eye was upon you like a hawk’s when he 
proposed to you to pay three thousand francs out 
of the six thousand. Ah, doctor, lie Avas fath- 
oming our resources. I Avanted you not to lay 
bare the extent of our poA^erty and helplessness. 
Oh, that eye ! He only said it to draAv you out, ” 

“If you thought so, Avhy did you not stop 
me?” * 

“I did all I could to. I made you a sign 
twice, ” 

“ Not that I obseiwed.” 

“Ah! if it had been Laure, she Avould haA’e 
understood it directly.” 

“But, Josephine, be candid : AA’hat sinister mo- 
tive can this poor man have ?” 

“Indeed I don’t know. Forgiv’e me my un- 
charitable instinct, and let us admire your rea- 
sonable sagacity. It ivas our smallest creditor ! 
Laure shall ask your pardon on her knees ; dear 
friend, she Avill not leave our mother alone : be 
so kind as to go into the saloon ; then Laure Avill 
come out to me.” 

The doctor did ashe Avas bid ; and sure enough, 
her mother having now a companion, Laure 


29 

Avhipped out and ran post-haste to her sister for 
the ncAvs. 

Thus a secret entered the house of Beaure- 
paire ; a secret from Avhich one person, the mis- 
tress of the house, Avas excluded. 

This Avas no vulgar secrecy, — no disloyal, nor 
selfish, nor CA'cn doubtful motive mingled Avith 
it. 

Circumstances appeared to dictate tliis course 
to tender and vigilant affection. 

They saAv and obeyed. They put up the shut- 
ters, not to keep out the light from some action 
that Avould not bear the light, but to keep the 
Avind of passing trouble from visiting tlie aged 
cheek they loved and revered and guarded. 

In three days the notary called again. The 
poor soul seemed a little doAvneast. He had 
been to Bonard and made no impression on him ; 
and to tell the truth had been insulted by him, 
or next door to it. 

On this they Averc all greatly dispirited. 

Maitre Perrin recoAxred first. He brighten- 
ed up all in a moment. 

“ I haA’e an idea,” said he ; “ aa’c shall succeed 
yet ; ay, and perhaps put all the liabilities on a 
more moderate scale of interest ; meantime — ” 
and here he hesitated. “ I Avish you AA’ould let 
an old friend be your banker and adA'ance you 
any small sums you may need for i)resent com- 
forts or conA-eniences.” 

Laure ’s eyes thanked him ; but Josephine, a 
little to her surprise, put in a hasty and firm, 
though polite negative. 

The notary apologized for his officiousness, 
and said : — 

“I do not press this trifling offer of service ; 
but pray consider it a permanent offer Avhich at 
any time you can honor me by accepting.” 

He addressed this to Josephine Avith the air of 
a subject offering one little acorn back out of all 
“ the Avoods and forests ” to his soA’ereign. 

While the open friend of Beaurepaire was thus 
exhibiting his zeal, its clandestine friend Avas 
making a chilling discoA'ery youth and romance 
haA’e to make on their road to old age and cau- 
tion, namely, how much easier it is to form 
many plans than to carry out one. 

This boiling young heart had beengoing to do 
Avonders for her he adored, and for those Avho 
Avere a part of her. He had been going to inter- 
est the goA'ernment in their misfortunes, — but 
hoAV ; Oh, “some AA’ay or other.” Looked at 
closer, “ some Avay ” had prov’ed impracticable 
and “ the other ” unprecedented, i.e., impossible. 

He had not been a mere dreamer in her cause 
cither. He had examined the Avhole estate of 
Beaurepaire, and had scientifically surveyed, on 
one government pretense or another, tAvo or three 
of the farms. He had discoA’ered to his great 
joy that all the farms Averc underlet; that there 
Avere no leases ; so that an able and zealous 
agent could in a fcAV months increase the baron- 
ess’s income thirty per cent. But Avhen he had 
got this valuable intelligence, what the better 
Avere they or he ? To shoAV them that they Avere 
not so poor as they in their aristocratical inca- 
pacity for business thought themseh’es, he must 
first Avin their ear : and how could he do this ? 
If he Avere to call at Beaurepaire, Avord Avould 
come doAvn again, “ Not at home to strangers 
until the Bourbons come back.” If he Avrote, 
the ansAver Avould be : “ Monsieur, I understand 


30 


WHITE LIES. 


absolutely notliing of business. Be kind enough 
to nnike3'Our oonirnunicatiou to our man of bus- 
iness,” — who must be either incapable or dishon- 
est, argued young Kiviere, or their affairs would 
not be thus vilely neglected ; ten to one he re- 
ceives a secret commission from the farmers to 
keep the rents low : so no good could come of 
applying to him, — and here stepped in a little 
bit of self, — for there are no angels upon earth 
except in a bad novel, and the poor boy was not 
writing a bad novel, but acting his little part in 
the real world. 

“No!” said he; “/ have found this out: 
perhaps she will never love me, but at least I will 
have her thanks, and the pride and glory of hav- 
ing done her and them a great service: no un- 
deserving person shall rob mo of this, nor even 
share it with me.” 

And here came the heart-breaking thing. The 
prospect of a formal acquaintance receded in- 
stead of advancing. 

In the first place, his own heart interposed a 
fresh obstacle: the deeper he fell in love the 
more his assurance dwindled ; and, since he 
found out they were so very poor, he was more 
timid still, and they seemed to him more sacred 
and inaccessible, for he felt in his own soul how 
proud and distant he should be if he was a pau- 
per. 

The next calamity was, the young ladies never 
came out now. Strange to sa}', he had no soon- 
er confided his love and his hopes to Jacintha, 
than she he loved kept the house with cruel per- 
tinacity. “ Had Jacintha been so mad as to go 
and prattle in spite of her promise? had the 
3’o;mg lady's delicacy been alarmed ? was she 
imprisoning herself to avoid meeting one whose 
admiration annoyed her?’’ 

A cold perspiration broke over him, whenever 
his perplexed mind came round to this thought. 

Now the poor can not afford to lose what the 
rich can fling away. 

The sight of that sweet face for a moment 
thrice a week was not much, — ah ! but it w'as, 
for it W'as all, — his one bit of joy and comfort 
and sunshine and hope, and it was gone now. 
Tlie loss of it kept him at fever heat every day 
of his life for an hour or two before their usual 
time of coming out and an hour or two after it, 
and chill at heart the rest of the day : and he 
lost Ills color and his appetite, and fretted and 
pined for this one look three times a Aveek. And 
she who could have liealed this wound with a 
glance of her violet eye and a smile once or tAvice 
a week, she who Avithout committing herself or 
caring a straw for him could have brought the 
color back to this 3'oung check and the Avarmth 
to this chilled heart by just shining out of doors 
noAv and then instead of in, sat at home with un- 
paralleled barbarity and persev'erance. 

At last one day he lost all patience. I must 
see Jacintha, said he, and, if she really imprisons 
herself to aA’oid me, I Avill leaA'e the country, — I 
Avill go into the army, — it is A'ery hard she should 
be robbed of her health and her Avalk because I 
love her ; and Avith this generous resolution the 
]ioor little felloAv felt something rise in his throat 
and nearly choke him, till a tear came to his re- 
lief, Forgive him, ladies : though a statesman, 
heAvas but a boA’, — boys Avill cry after Avomen as 
children for toys. You may have observed this ! 

He Avalkcd hurriedly up to Beaurepaire, ask- 


ing himself hoAV he should contrive an interview 
Avith Jacintha. 

On his arrival there, casting his ca'CS over the 
palings, Avhatdid he see but the tAvo young ladies 
Avalking in the park at a considerable distance 
from the house. 

His heart gaA’e a leap at the sight of them. 

Then he had a sudden inspiration. The park 
Avas not strictly priA'ate, at least since the Kevo- 
lution. Still it Avas so far private that respect- 
able people did not make a practice of crossing 
it. 

I Avill seem to meet them unexpectedly, 
thought young Riviere, and if sEe smiles, I Avill 
apologize for crossing the park ; then I shall 
have spoken to her. I shall have broken the ice. 

He met them. They looked so loftily sad he 
had not the courage to address them. He boAved 
respectfully, they courtesied, and he passed on 
cursing his coAvardice. 

I must see Jacintha. He made a long detour ; 
his object being to get Avherc he could be seen 
from the kitchen. 

Meantime the folloAving short dialogue passed 
betAveen the sisters : — 

Laure. “ Why, he has lost his color ! What a 
pity!” 

Josephine. “ Who, dear ?” 

Laure. “That young gentleman Avho passed 
us just noAA'. Did you not observe Iioav pale ho 
has turned. He has been ill. I am so sorry,” 

Josephine. “ Who is he ? ’ 

Laure. “ I don’t knoAV Avho he is ; IknoAVAvhat 
he is, though.” 

.Josephine. “And Avhat is he?” 

iMure. “ He is veiy handsome ; and he passes 
us oftener than seems to me quite natural ; and 
noAv.I think of it,” said Laure, opening her eyes 
ludicrously, “I liaAe a sister Avho is a beautiful 
Avoman ; and now I think of it again,” — opening 
her eyes still Avider, — “if I do not lock her up, I 
shall perhaps have a rival in her affections.” 

.Josephine. “ Child ! Moreover he seems to me 
a mere boy.” 

Laure gave a toss of her head, and a suspicious 
look at Josephine. 

“Oh, mademoiselle, there are forAvard boys as 
Avellas bacltAvard ones. But I shall have an eye 
on you both.” 

Josephine smiled very faintly ; amidst so many 
cares she Avas hardly equal to Avhat she took for 
granted Avas a pure jest of Laure’s, and their con- 
A'ersation returned to its usual channels. 

Edouard got round to the other side of the 
chateau, and strolled about outside the palings 
some thirty yards from the kitchen door ; and 
there he Avalked sloAvly about, ho])ing CA'ery mo- 
ment to see the kitchen door open and Jacintha 
come out. lie Avas disappointed ; and, after 
hanging about nearly an hour, Avas going aAvay 
in despair, Avhen a AvindoAv at the top of the house 
suddenly opened, and Jacintha made him a rapid 
signal Avith her hand to go nearer the public road. 
He obeyed; and then she kept him Avaiting till 
his second stock of patience Avas nearly exhaust- 
ed; but at last he heard a rustle, and' there Avas 
her comely face set betAveen tAvo young acacias. 
He ran to her. She received hini Avith a rebuke. 

“Is that the Avay to do? — proAvling in sight, 
like a housebreaker.” 

“ Did any one see me?” 

“Yes! Madamoiselle Laure did; and, Avhat 


WHITE LIES. 


O 1 
o i 


is more, she spoke to me ; and asked me who ' 
you were. Of course I said I didn’t know.” 

“Oh! did you?” 

“Then she asked me if it was not the young 
monsieur who sent them the game. Oh ! I for- 
got, I ought to have told you that first. Wlien 
they asked me about the game, I said, ‘ It is a 
young sportsman that takes Dard out ; so he shot 
some on the baroness’s land.’ I was obliged to 
say that, you know.” 

“Well, but you spoke the truth.” 

“ You don’t mean that ! — that is odd ; but ac- 
cidents will happen. ‘ And so he gave some of 
it to Dard for the house,’ said I. But the next 
time you want me, don’t stand sentinel for all 
the world to see ; make me a signal and then slip 
in here, and I will join you.” 

“ A signal ?” 

Jacintha put her hand under her apron and 
pulled out a dish-clout. 

Hang this on that tree out there ; then I shall 
see it from the kitchen window ; so then I shall 
know something is up. Apropos, what is up now?” 

“ I am very unhappy ! — that is up.” 

“ Oh ! you must expect the cold fit as well as 
the hot fit, if you will fall in love,” observed 
Jacintha, with a cool smile. “Why didn’t you 
come to me before, and be cheered up. What 
is the matter ?” 

“ Dear Jacintha, she never comes out now. 
What is to become of me if I am to lose the very 
sight of her? Surely, you have not been so in- 
discreet as to tell them — ” 

“There is a question. Do you see green in 
my eye, young man ?” 

“ Tlien what is the reason? — there must be 
some reason. They used to walk out ; pray, 
pray, tell me the reason.” 

Jacintha’s merry countenance fell. “My 
poor lad,” said she, kindly, “ don’t torment your- 
self, or fancy I have been such an ill friend to 
you, or such a novice, as to put them on their 
guard against you. No ; it is the old story, — 
want of money.” 

“That keeps them in-doors? How can that 
be?” 

“Well, now,” said Jacintha, “it is just as 
well you have come to-day, for if you had come 
this time yesterday I could not have told you, 
but I overheard them yesternight. My sou, it is j 
for want of clothes.” 

Riviere groaned, and looked aghast at her. 

“Don’t!” cried the faithful servant, — “don’t 
look at me so, or I shall give way, I know I shall ; 
nor don’t mistake me either, — they have plenty 
of colored dresses ; old ones, but very good ones ; 
but it is their black'drcsses that are worn shabby ; 
and they can’t afford to buy new ; and all the 
old dresses are colored, and it goes against their 
hearts to go flaunting it. They were crying last 
night to think they could not afford even to mourn 
for their father, but must come out in colors, for 
want of a little money.” 

“ Jacintha, they will break my heart.” 

“ So it seems they have settled not to go out 
of the grounds at all. Thus they meet nobody ; 
so now they can wear their mourning till it is 
quite threadbare. Ah, my son, how different | 
from most women, that can’t forget the dead too 
quick, and come flaring out again. And to- 
moiTow is her birthday. I mind the time there 
was one beautiful new gown sure to be laid out 


on her bed that day, if not two. Times are 
sadly changed with us, monsieur.” 

“ To-morrow is her birthday ?” 

“Yes!” 

“ Good-bye, Jacintha, — my heart is full. 
There ! good-bye, loyal heart,” and he kissed her 
hastily, with trembling lips. 

“Boor boy! — don’t lose my clout, whatever 
you do !” 

She uttered this caution with extreme anxiety, 
and at the top of her voice, as he was running 
off in a strange flutter. 

The next day the notary bustled in with a 
cheerful air. He had not a moment to stay, but 
just dropped in to say that he thought matters 
were going well, and that he should be able to 
muzzle Bonard. 

After this short interview, which was with the 
young ladies only, for the doctor was out, away 
bustled Perrin. 

It was about an hour after this, — Josephine 
was reading to the baroness, and Laure and she 
were working, — when in came Jacintha, and 
made a courtesy. 

“ The tree is come, my ladies.” 

“ What tree?” inquired the baroness. 

“ For mademoiselle to plant, ftccording to cus- 
tom. It is her birthday. Dard has brought it ; 
it is an acacia this time.” 

“The faithful creature,” cried the baroness. 
“She has thought of this, — and we forgot it. 
There, bring me my shawl and hood. I will not 
be absent from the ceremony.” 

“But, dear mamma,” put in Josephine, “ had 
not you better look at us from the window, there 
is such a cold air out to-day ?” 

“It is not cold enough to chill a mother’s love. 
My first-born !” cried the old lady, with a burst 
of nature ; “ I see her in her cradle now. Sweet 
little cherub.” 

In a few minutes they were all out in the gar- 
den. 

Josephine was to decide where she would plant 
her tree. 

“ Only remember, mademoiselle,” said Jacin- 
tha, “it will not always be little like it is now. 
You must not put it where it will be choked up 
when it is a big tree.” 

“Oh no, Jacintha,” cried Laure, “ we will 
plant it to the best advantage.” 

Then one advised Josephine to plant it on the 
south terrace ; another perferred the turf oval 
between the great gate and the north side of the 
chateau. When they had said their say, to their 
surprise Josephine said rather timidly, “ I should 
like to plant it in the Pleasance.” 

“ In the Pleasance ! Why, Jose]>hine ?” 

“ It will take some time to plant,” explaiuc 
Josephine. 

“But it will take no more time to plant it 
where it will show than in the Pleasance,” cried 
Laure, half angrily. 

“ But, Laure, the Pleasance is sheltered from 
the wind,” said Josephine. 

Dard gave gave a snort of contempt. 

“It is sheltered to-day because the chateau 
happens to be between the wind and it. But the 
wind will not be always in that quarter ; and the 
Pleasance is open to more winds than any other 
part, if yon go to that.” 

“Dear mamma, may I not plant it in the 
Pleasance ?” 


82 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Of course you may, my child.” 

“And who told you to put in your word!” 
cried Jacintha to Dard. “ You are to take up 
your spade and dig the hole where mademoiselle 
bids, — that is what you are hero for, not to 
argufy.” 

“ Laurc, I admire the energy of that girl’s 
character,” remarked Josephine, languidly, as 
they all made for the rieasance. 

“Where will you have it?” asked Dard, 
roughly. 

“ Here, I think, Dard, ’’said Josephine, sweet- 
ly. 

Dard grinned malignantly, and drove in his 
spade. “ It will never be much bigger than a 
stinging-nettle,” thought he, “ for the roots of 
the oak have sucked every atom of heart out of 
this.” His black soul exulted secretly. 

They watched his work. 

“ Y’ou are not cold, mamma?” asked Joseph- 
ine, anxiously. 

“No! no!” said the baroness, “There is 
no wind on this side of the house. Ah ! now I 
see, my Josephine. I have a very good daugh- 
ter, — who will never shine in horticulture.” 

Jacintha stood by Dard, inspecting his work ; 
the three ladies stood together watching him at 
the distance of a few feet ; on their right, but a 
little behind them, was the great oak. Close 
behind them was a lemon-tree and its mould in 
an immense tub ; the tub was rotting at the sides. 
Over the mould was a little moss here and there. 

Now, at the beginning of this business, the ex- 
citement of the discussion, and choosing the 
spot, and setting Dard to work, had animated 
the baroness as well as her daugliter. But now, 
for some time Dard had all the excitement to 
himself. They had only to look on and think 
wliile he wrought. 

“Oh, dear,” cried Laure, suddenly, “ mamma 
is crying. Josephine, our mother is crying !” 

“ Ah !” cried Josephine, “ 1 feared this. I did 
not want her to come out. Oh, my mother ! my 
mother !” 

“My children,” sobbed the baroness, “ it is 
very natural. I can not but remember how often 
we h.ave planted a tree and kept the poor child’s 
birthday — not as now. Those were on earth then 
that have left us and gone to God. Many friends 
stood round us, — how warm their hands, how 
friendly their voices, how truthful their eyes ! 
Y'et they have abandoned us. Adversity has 
shaken them off as the frost is even now stripping 
off your leaves, old friend. These tears are not 
for me ! Oh no ! thanks to God and the Vir- 
gin I know whither I am going, and whom I 
sh.all meet again, I care not how soon ; but it is 
to think I must leave my darlings behind me 
without a friend, my tender lambs in a world of 
foxes and wolves without a friend !” 

“ My mother, we have friends ! We have the 
dear doctor.” 

“A savant, Laurc, a creature more a woman 
than a woman ; you will have to take care of him, 
not he of you.” 

“Wo have our own love! did ever a sister 
love another as I love Josephine ?” 

“No!” said Josephine. “I'cs! I love you 
as much.” 

“As to that, yes, you will fall in one another’s 
arms,” said the baroness. “Ah! I do ill to 
weej) this dn^; my children, suffer me to com- 


pose myself.” And the baroness turned round, 
and applied her handkerchief to her eyes. Her 
daughters withdrew a step or two in the opposite 
direction ; for in those days ])arents, even the 
most affectionate, maintained a marked superior- 
ity, and the above was a hint their mother would 
be alone a moment. 

They waited respectfully for her orders to rejoin 
her. The order did come, and in a tone that 
surprised them. 

“My children, come here, — both of you.’’ 

They found the baroness poking among the 
moss with the point of her ebony crutch. 

“ This is a purse, and it is not yours, Laure, 
nor yours, is it ?” 

The two girls looked, and, sure enough, there 
lay among the green moss in the tub a green silk 
purse. They eyed it like startled deer a mo- 
ment, and then Laure pounced on it and took it 
up. 

“ Oh, how heavy!” she cried. Jacintha and 
Dard came running up ; Laure poured the con- 
tents into her hand, ten gold pieces of twenty 
francs each ; new shining gold pieces. Ja- 
cintha gave a scream of joy, a sort of victorious 
war-whoop. 

“Luck is turned,” cried she, with joyful su- 
perstition. Laure stood with the gold pieces glit- 
tering in her pink white palm, and her face blush- 
ing all over and beaming, and her eyes glittering 
with excitement and pleasure. Their amaze- 
ment was great. 

“And here is a paper,” cried Josephine, 
eagerly, bending over the moss and taking up a 
small piece of paper folded ; she opened it rapidly, 
and showed it them all ; it contained these words, 
in a copperplate hand : — 

From a friend, — in j)art payment of a great 

dehtr 

And now all of a sudden Josephine began to 
blush ; and gradually not only her face but her 
neck blushed all over, and even her white fore- 
head glowed like a rose. 

“Who could it be?” that was the question 
that echoed on all sides. 

The baroness solved it for them: “It is St. 
Aubin.” 

“Oh, mamma! he has not ten gold pieces.” 

“Who knows? he has perhaps found some 
bookseller who has bought his work on insects.” 

“No, mamma,” said Laure ; “ lean not think 
this is our dear doctor’s doing. It is odd, too, 
his being out of the way at this hour ; I never 
knew him anywhere but at his books till two. 
Hush! hush! — here he comes; let us circum- 
vent him on the spot: this is fun.” 

“Give me the purse,” said the baroness, “ and 
you, Jacintha and Dard, recommence yonr work.” 

When the doctor came up, he found Dard at 
work, Jacintha standing by him, and the ladies 
entirely occupied in looking on. The baroness 
explained to him what was going on. He show- 
ed considerable interest in it. 

Presently the baroness put her hand in her 
pocket, and gave her daughters a look ; four eyes 
were instantly levelled at the doctor’s face. 
Stand firm, doctor ; if there is^a crevice in your 
coat of mail, those eyes will pierce it. 

“By-the-by,” said the baroness, with perfect 
nonchalance, “you have dropped your purse 
here ; we have just picked it up anil she hand- 
ed it him. 


WHITE LIES. 


“Thank yon, madamc,” said he, and he took 
it carelessly ; “ this is not mine, — it is too heavy, 
— and, now I think of it,” continued the savant, 
with enviable simplicity, “I have not carried a 
purse this twenty years. No ! I put my silver 
in my right waistcoat-pocket, and my gold in 
my left, that is, I should, but I never have 
any.” 

‘‘ Doctor, on your honor, did you not leave this 
purse and this paper there ?” 

The doctor examined the paper. Meantime 
Laure explained to him what had occurred. 

“Madame the baroness,” said he, “I have 
been your friend and pensioner nearly twenty 
years ; if by some strange chance money were to 
come into my hands, I should not play you a 
childish trick like this of which 3 ’oa seem to sus- 
pect me. I have the right to come to you and 
say, ‘ My old friend, here I bring you back a 
small part of all I owe you.’ ” 

“My friend ! my friend! I was stupid; tell 
us then who is our secret friend ? may Heaven 
bless him !” 

“ Let us reflect,” said the doctor. “Ah ! to 
be sure. I would lay my life it is he !” 

“Who?” 

“ A very honest man, whom you have treated 
harshly, madame ; it is Perrin, the notary !” 

It was the baroness’s turn to be surprised. 

“I may as well confess to you, madame, that 
I have lately had more than one interview with 
Perrin, and that, although he is naturally hurt 
at the severity with which you treated him, his 
regard for you is undiminished.” 

“ I am as grateful as possible,” said the baron- 
ess, with a fine and scarcely perceptible sneer. 

“Laure,” said Josephine, “it is curious, but 
Monsieur Perrin was here for a minute or two 
to-day ; and really he did not seem to have any 
thing particular to say.” 

“There!” shouted the doctor, — “there! he 
came to leave the purse. And in doing so he 
was only carrying out an intention he had already 
declared.” 

“Indeed !” said the baroness. 

“ He offered to advance money in small sums ; 
an offer that of course was declined. So ho was 
driven to this manoeuvre. There are honest 
hearts among the notaries.” 

While the doctor was enforcing his views on 
the baroness, Josephine and Laure slipped away 
round the house. 

“ Who is it ?” said Laure. 

“ It is not the doctor ; and it is not Perrin, — 
of course not. But who is it ?” 

“ Laure, don’t you think it is some one who 
has at all events delicate sentiments?” 

“ Clearly, and therefore not a notary.” 

“Laure, dear, might it not be some person 
who has done us some wrong, and is perhaps 
penitent?” 

“ Certainly,” said Laure. “ Such a person 
might make restitution, — one of our tenants, or 
creditors, you mean, I suppose ; but the paper 
says ‘ a friend.’ Stay, it says a debtor ! Why a 
debtor? Down with enigmas!” 

“ Laure, dear, think of some one that might — ” 

“ I can’t. I am quite at a loss.” 

“ Since it is not the doctor, nor Monsieur Per- 
rin, might it not be — for, after all, he would 
naturally bo ashamed to appear before me.” 

“Before you ?” 


33 

“Yes, Laure, is it quite certain that it might 
not be — ” 

“Who?” asked Laure, nervously, catching a 
glimpse now. 

“ He who once pretended to love me!” 

“ Camille Dujardin?” 

“ It was not I who mentioned his name,” cried 
Josephine, hastily. 

Laure turned pale. 

“Oh, 7}ion Dieu ! mon Dieu !" she cried. “She 
loves that man still.” 

“ No ! no ! no I” 

“ You love him just the same as ever. Oh, it 
is wonderful — it is terrible — the power this man 
has over you, — over your judgment as well as 
your heart.” 

“ No ! for I believe he has forgotten my very 
name ; don’t you think so ?” 

“Dear Jo.sephine, can you doubt it?” 

“Forgive me.” 

“Come, you do doubt it.” 

“ I do.” 

“ Why ? for what reason ?” 

“ Because the words he said to me as we part- 
ed at that gate lie still at my heart ; and oh ! my 
sister, the voice we love seems the voice of truth 
itself. He said, “ I am to join the army of the 
Pyrenees, so fatal to our troops ; but say to me 
what you never yet have said, ‘ Camille, I love 
you,’ — and I swear I will come back alive.'” 

“So, then, I said to him, ‘ I love you,’ — and 
he never came back.” 

“How could he come here? a deserter, — a 
traitor !” 

“ It is not true ! it is not in his nature ; incon- 
stancy may be. Tell me that he never really 
loved me, and I will believe you ; but not that 
he is a coward. Let me weep over my past love, 
not blush for it.” 

“ Past ? You love him to-day as you did three 
years ago S” 

“No ! I tell you I do not. I love no one. I 
never shall love any one again.” 

“ But him. It is that love which turns your 
heart against others. You love him, dearest, or 
why should you fancy our secret benefactor 
could be Camille ?” 

“Why? Because I was mad! because it is 
impossible ; but I see my folly. Let us go in, 
my sister.” 

“ Go, love, I will follow you ; but don’t you 
care to know who I think left the purse for us ?’’ 

“No,” said Josephine, sadly and doggedly; 
she added with cold nonchalance, “ I dare say 
time will show ;” and she went slowly in, her 
hand to her head. 

“ Her birthday !” 

♦ 

CHAPTER VI. 

“ I WILL see her tree planted,” thought Laure, 
“ for she has forgotten it, and every thing, and 
every body but that — ” 

And she ran off to join the group. Turning 
the corner rapidly, she found Jacintha suspi- 
ciously near ; and, above all, walking away to- 
wards the tree: away from where? 

Laure burned with anger, and, as she passed 
Jacintha, she wheeled about, and gave her a look 
like ?'c 1 lightning. It came like a slap in the 


3 


34 


WHITE LIES. 


face. Jacintha, meantime, liad got ready an 
amazing dogged, unconscious face ; 

“ And o’er the impassive ice the lightnings play." 

This gallant and praiseworthy effort was but 
partially successful. She could command her 
features, but not her blood : she felt it burn her 
check under the fire of Laure’s eye. And in 
the evening, when Laure suddenly beckoned to 
her, and said in a significant way, “1 want to 
speak to you Jacintha,” the faithful domestic felt 
like giving way at the knees and sinking down 
flat ; so she stood up like Notre Dame outward- 
ly, and wore an expression of satisfaction and 
agreeable expectation on her impenetrable mug. 

Laure drove in an eye. 

“ Who put that purse there?’’ she asked in a 
half-threatening tone. 

“ Mademoiselle Laure, I don’t know, but I 
have my suspicions; and if mademoiselle will 
give me a few days, I think I can find out for 
sure.” 

“ How many days? because I am impatient.” 

“ Say a fortnight, mademoiselle.” 

“ That is a long time; well, it is agreed,” 

And so these two parted without a word open- 
ly uttered on either side about that which was 
uppermost in both their minds. 

“Come,” thought Jacintha, “ I am well out 
of it 2 if I can find that out, she won't give it me 
for listening ; and it is a fair bargain, especially 
for me, for I know who left the purse ; but I 
wasn’t going to tell her that all in a moment.” 

Now Jacintha, begging her pardon, did not 
know; but she strongly suspected young Riviere 
of being the culprit who had invented this new 
sort of burglary, — breaking into honest folk’s 
premises in the dead of night, and robbing them 
of their poverty instead of their wealth, like the 
good old-fashioned burglars. 

She waited quietly, expecting every day to see 
her dish-clout waving from the tree at the back, 
and to hear him tell her of his own accord how 
cleverly he had done the trick. 

No. 

Day after day passed away, and no clout. 
The fortnight was melting, and Jacintha’s pa- 
tien ce. She resolved ; and one morning she 
cut two bunches of grapes, and pulled some nec- 
tarines, put them in a basket, covered them with 
a napkin, and called on M. Edouard Riviere at 
his lodgings. She was ushered into that awful 
presence ; and, so long as the servant was in 
hearing, all her talk was about the fruit she had 
brought him in return for his game. The serv- 
ant being gone, she dropped the mask. 

“ Well, it is all right !” said she, smiling and 
winking. 

“ What is all right ?” 

“ They have got the purse !” 

“Have they! What purse! I don’t know 
what you allude to.” 

“ No, of course not, Mr. Innocence : you did 
not leave a purse full of gold up at Beaure- 
paire ! ! ! !” 

“ Well, I never said I did ; purses full of gold 
are luxuries with which I am little acquainted.” 

“Very well,” said Jacintha, biting her lip; 
“then you and I are friends no longer, that is 
all.” 

“ Oh yes, we are.” 

“No! if you can’t trust me, you are no friend 


of mine ; ingrate ! to try and deceive vie, I 
know it was you !” 

“ Well, if you know, why ask me ?” retorted 
Edouard, sharply. 

“ Better snap my nose off, had you not ?” said 
Jacintha, reproachfull}". “ Confess it is odd your 
not showing more curiosity about it. Looks as 
if you knew all about it, eh ?” 

“ But I am curious, and I wish to Heaven you 
would tell me what it is all about, instead of tak- 
ing it into your head that 1 know already.” 

“ Well, I will.” 

So Jacintha told him all about the baroness 
finding the purse, and on whom their suspicions 
had fallen. 

“I wish it had been said Edouard ; “but 
tell me, dear, has it been of service, has it con- 
tributed to their comfort? that is the principal 
thing, — not who gave it.” 

On this Jacintha reflected, and fixing her gray 
eye on him she said : “ Unluckily there were 
just two pieces too few.” 

“What a pity.” 

“ No one of my ladies ever buys a new dress 
without the others having one too; now they 
found it would take two more gold pieces to give 
my three ladies a new suit of mourning each. 
So the money is put by till they can muster the 
other two.” 

“ What, then,” cried Edouard, “ I must not 
hope to see them out again any the more for 
this money ?” 

“No! you see it w^as not quite enough.” 

Riviere’s countenance fell. 

“Well,” said Jacintha, assuming a candid 
tone, “I see it was not you, but really at first I 
suspected you.” 

“ It is nothing to be ashamed of, if I had done 
it.” 

“No! indeed. How foolish to suspect you, 
was it not? You shall have the grapes all the 
same.” 

“Oh, thank you: they come from Beaure- 
paire?” 

“Yes. Good-bye. Don’t be sad. They will 
come out again as soon as they can afford the 
mourning;” she added, with sudden warmth, 
“you have not lost my clout?” 

“No! no!” 

“You had better give it to me back ; then my 
mind will be at ease.” 

“ No, excuse me ; it is my only way of getting 
a word with you.” 

“Why, you have never used it.” 

“But I may want to any day.” 

Jacintha, as she went home with her empty 
basket, knitted her black brows, and recalled the 
scene, and argued the matter pro and con. 

“I don’t know why he should face it out like 
that with me if it was he. Ah ! but he would 
have been jealous, and a deal more inquisitive if 
it was not he. Well, any way I have put him 
off his guard, and won’t I watch him ! If it is 
he. I’ll teach him to try and draw the wool over 
Jacintha’s eyes, and she his friend,— the mon- 
ster.” 

Fortune co-operated with these malignant 
views. This very evening Dard declared him- 
self, — that is, after proposing by implication and 
probable inference for the last seven years, he 
made a direct offer of his hand and digestive or- 
gans. 


WHITE LIES. 


35 


Now this gave Jacintha great pleasure. She 
could have kissed the little fellow on the spot. 

So she said, in an off-hand way : “ Well, 
Dard, if'I were to take anyone, it should be 
you : but I have pretty well made up my mind 
not to marry at all ; at all events till my mistress 
can spare me.” 

“Gammon!” shouted Dard, “that is what 
they all say.” 

“Well what every body says must be true,” 
said Jacintha, equivocating unworthily. 

“ Not unless they stick to it,” objected Dard. 

“ And that is a song they all drop at the church 
door, when they do get a chance.” 

“Well, I am not in such a hurry as to snap 
at such a small chance,” retorted Jacintha, with 
a toss of her head. 

So then the polite swain had to mollify her. 

“Well, Dard,” said she, “one good turn de- 
serves another : if I am to marry you, what will 
you do for me ?” 

Dard gave a glowing description of what he 
would do for her as soon as she was his wife. 

She let him know that was not the point: 
what would he do for hei\^/'sf. 

He would do any thing, — every thing. 

We do know 

When the blood burns, how prodigal the heart 
Lends the tongue vows. — Hamlet. 

This brought the contracting parties to an un- 
derstanding. 

First, under a vow of secrecy, she told him 
young Riviere was in love with Josephine, and 
she was his confidante ; then she told him how 
the youth had insulted her by attempting to de- 
ceive her about the purse; and, finally, Dard 
must watch his movements by night and day, 
that between them they might catch him out. 

Dard made a wry face, — dolus latet in genera- 
lihus [free translation, “ any thing means noth- 
ing];” when he vowed to do any thing, every 
thing, what not, and such small phrases, he nev- 
er intended to do any thing in particular: but [ 
he was in for it ; and sentinel and spy were added 
to his little odd jobs. For the latter office his ap- 
parent stolidity qualified him, and so did his pet- 
ty but real astuteness ; moreover, he was daily 
primed by Jacintha, — a good soul, but no Nico- 
dema. Meantime St. Aubin upheld Perrin as 
the secret benefivetor, and bade them all observe 
that since that day the notary had never been to 
the chateau. 

The donor, whoever he was, little knew the 
pain he was inflicting on this distressed but proud > 
family ; or the hard battle that ensued between 
their necessities and their delicacy! ! The ten 
gold pieces were a perpetual temptation, a daily 
conflict. 

The words that accompanied the donation of- 
fered an excuse, and their poverty enforced it. 
Their pride and dignity opposed it; but these 
bright bits of gold cost them many a sharp pang. 

The figures Jacintha laid before Riviere were 
purely imaginary. A mere portion of the tivo 
hundred francs would have enabled the poor girls 
to keep up appearances with the outside world, 
and yet to mourn their father openly. And it 
went through and through those tender, simple 
hearts, to think that they must be disunited,—' 
even in so small a thing as dress ; that, while 
their mother remained in her weeds, they must 
seem no longer to share her woe. 


The baroness knew their feeling, and felt its 
piety, and yet must not say. Take five of these 
bits of gold, and let us all look what we are, — 
one. 

Yet in this, as in every thing else, they came 
to be all of one mind. They resisted, they strug- 
gled, and with a WTench they conquered day by 
day. 

At last, by general consent they locked up the 
tempter, and looked at it no more. 

But the little bit of paper met a kinder fate. 
Laure made a little frame for it, and it was kept 
in a drawer in the salon^ and often looked at and 
blessed. Their mother had despaired of human 
friendship, and with despondency on her lips she 
had found this paper with the sacred word 
“ friend ” written on it ; it fell all in a moment 
on their aching hearts. 

They could not tell whence it came, — this bless- 
ed word. 

But who can tell whence comes the dew ? 

Science is in two minds about that. 

Then let me go with the Poets, who say it 
comes from Heaven : we shall not go far wrong 
assigning any good thing to that source. 

And even so that sweet word “friend” drop- 
ped like the dew from Heaven on these afflicted 
ones. 

So they locked the potent gold away from 
themselves, and took the kind slip of paper to 
their hearts. Aristo va. 

The fortnight elapsed, Jacintha was no wiser. 
She had to beg a respite. Laure conceded it 
with an austere brow', smiling inwardl3\ 

Meantime Dard, Jacintha’s little odd sentinel, 
spy, gardener, lover, and all that, wormed him- 
self with rustic cunning into the states-boy’s con- 
fidence. 

Treachery met its retribution. The states-boy 
made him his factotum, — i. e., yet another set of 
little odd jobs fell on him. He had ahvays been 
struck by their natural variety ; but now W’hat 
with Jacintha’s and what Riviere’s they seemed 
infinite. 

At one hour he w'ould be holding a long chain 
w'hile Riviere measured the lands of Beaurepaire : 
at another he would be set to pump a farmer. 
Then it would be, “Back, Dard!” this meant 
he was to stand in a crescent while Edouard 
wrote a long calculation or made a sketch upon 
him, compendious writing-desk. 

Then oh, luxury of luxuries, he, the laziest of 
the human race, though through the malice of 
fate the hardest-worked, had to call Citizen Ri- 
viere in the morning! 

At night after all his toil he could count upon 
the refreshment of being scolded by Jacintha be- 
cause he brought home the w'rong sort of infor- 
mation, and had not the talent to coin the right. 
He did please her twice though ; the first time 
was when he told her they were measuring the 
lands of Beaurepaire; and again when he found 
out the young citizen’s salary, four hundred 
francs on the first of every month. 

“That brat to have four hundred francs a 
month!” cried Jacintha. “Dard, I will give 
you a good supper to-night.” 

Dard believed in her affection for a moment, 
for w’ith one of his kidney the proof of the pud- 
ding, etc. 

“And whilst I am cooking it here is a little 
job for you — to fill up the time.” 


36 


WHITE LIES. 


“Ugh!” I 

Jacintha had blacked twenty yards of string, 
and cut down half a dozen bells that were never | 
used now. j 

“You shall put them up again when times 
mend,” said she. 

All Dard had to do now was to draw a wide 
magic circle all around the lemon-tree, and so 
fixed the bells that they should be out of sight, 
and should ring if a foot came against the invisi- 
ble string. 

This little odd job <j'-as from that night incor- 
porated into Dard’s daily existence. He had to 
set the trap and bells at dusk every evening, and 
from that moment till bedtime Jacintha went 
about her work with half her mind out-of-doors, 
half in, and her ear on full cock. 

One day St. Aubin met the notary ambling. 
He stopped him, and holding up his finger said 
playfully : 

“ We have found you out.” 

The notary turned pale. 

“Oh,” cried the doctor, “ this is pushing sen- 
sibility too far.” 

The notary stammered. 

“ A good action done slyly is none the less a 
good action.” 

This explanation completed the notary’s mys- 
tification. 

“ But you are a worthy man, ’’ cried St. Aubin, 
wai-ming. 

The notary bowed. 

“ They can not profit by your liberality, but 
they feel it deeply. And you will be rewarded 
in a better world. It is I who tell you so.” 

The notary muttered indistinctly. He was a 
man of moderate desires ; would have been quite 
content if there had been no other world in per- 
spective. He had studied this, and made it pay 
— did not desire a better — sometimes feared a 
worse. 

“Ah !” said Monsieur St. Aubin, “I see how 
it is; we do not like to hear ourselves praised, 
do we? When shall we see you at the cha- 
teau r” 

“As soon as I have good news to bring.” 
And Perrin, anxious to avoid such a shower of 
compliments, spurred the dun, and cantered 
away. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“Mademoiselle Laure !” 

“Who is that?” 

“Me, mademoiselle !” 

“ And who is me?” 

“Jacintha. Arc you sleep\vmademoiselle ?” 

“Ah, yes!-” 

“Then don’t! — you must rise directly.” 

“Must I? Why? Ah! the chateau is on 
fire!” 

“ No ! no ! — great news. I may be mistaken, 
but I don’t think I am, — I am sure not, how- 
ever. ” 

“Ah! the purse! — the purse !’’ 

“No other thing. Listen, mademoiselle. 
Dard has watched a certain person this month 
past, by my orders. Well, mademoiselle, last 
night he got his pay, — four hundred francs, — 
and what do you think, he told Dard he must 


j be called an hour before daybreak. Something 
must he up, — something is up!” 
j “That thing is me !” cried Laure. “ Behold, 

1 1 am up ! Y’'ou good girl, when did vou know 
all this?” 

“ Only since last night.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me last night, then ?” 

“I had more sense. You would not have 
slept a wink. I haven’t. Mademoiselle, tliere 
is no time to spare ; why, the sun will be up in 
a few minutes. How quick could you dress to 
save your life?” asked Jacintha, a little fretful- 
ly; “in half an hour?” ' 

“In half a minute,” cried Laure; “fly and 
get Josephine up; there will be the struggle !” 

Laure dressed herself furiously, and glided to 
Josephine’s room. She found her languidly ar- 
ranging herself in the usual style. 

Laure flew at her like a tiger-cat, pinned her 
and hooked her, and twisted her about at a rare 
rate. 

Josephine smiled and yawned. 

While the sprightly Hebe was thus expediting 
the languid Venus, a bustle of feet was heard 
overhead, and down came Jacintha red as fire. 

“Oh, mesdemoiselles ! I have been on the 
leads. There is somebody coming from the vil- 
lage, — I spied from behind the chimney. There 
is not a moment to lose, — the sun is up, too.” 

“But I am not dressed, my girl.” 

“’Then you must come undressed,” said Ja- 
cintha, brusquely. 

“I feel as if I should come undressed,” said 
Josephine, quietly. “You have not half fas- 
tened me. There, don’t let me detain you, — go 
without me.” 

“Hear to that !”' remonstrated Jacintha; 
“and it is for her the man does it all.” 

“For her?” 

“ For me ?” 

“Yes! mademoiselle, for you. Is that won- 
derful? You look at yourself in the glass, and 
that will explain all. No, don’t, or M'e shall be 
too late. Now, ladies, come to vour hidimr- 
place.” 

“What! are we to hide?” 

“Why, you don’t think he will do it, if he 
sees you, mademoiselle. Besides, how are you 
to catch him unless I put you in ambush ?” 

“Oh, you good girl,” cried Laure. “Here, 
then, is one that originates ideas, — this is fun.” 

“I would rather dispense with that part of 
her idea,” said Josephine. “ What can I say to 
one I do not knew, even if I catch him, —which 
I hope I shall not ?” 

“ Oh, we have not caught him yet,” said Ja- 
cintha ; “and, if you do, it won’t be ‘ I,’ it will be 
‘we.’ You will be as bold as lions when you 
find yourselves two to one, and on your own 
ground. One and one make fifteen !” 

“One and one make fifteen? Laure, you 
are dressed, demand an explanation, — and lend 
me a pin.” 

“I mean one young lady alongside another 
young lady has the courage of fifteen separate.” 

Jacintha now took the conduct of the expedi- 
tion. She led her young mistresses on tiptoe to 
the great oak-tree. “In with you, my ladies, 
and as still as mice.” 

They cast a comic look at one another, and 
obeyed the general. 

“Now,” said Jacintha, “if it is all right, I 


WHITE LIES. 


37 


slia’n't stir; if it is all wrong, I shall come and 
tell yon. Mother of Heaven, there is your blind 
up, — if he sees that, he will know you are up. I 
fly to draw it down, — adieu, rnesdemoiselles.” 

" “ She is not coming back, Josephine ?” 

“No, my sister.” 

“Then my heartbeats, that is all. Also, im- 
agine us popping out on a stranger!” 

“ Such a phrase ! — my sister !” 

“ It popped out, my sister!” 

“Before we even think of any thing else, be 
so kind as to fasten one or two of these hooks j 
properly ; should we really decide to charge the j 
foe, it would be well to have as little disorder in | 
our own lines as possible and Josephine’s lip 
made a little curl that was inestimably beautiful. 
Laure obeyed. During the process, Josephine 
delivered herself, in a faint sort of way, of what 
follows : 

“ See, nevertheless, how hard it is for our sex 
to resist energy. Jacintha is our servant ; but ; 
she has energy and decision; this young worn- i 
an, my supposed inferior, willed that I should be ; 
in an absurd position ; what is the consequence? j 
A minute ago I was in bed, — now I am here, — 1 
and the intervening events are a blank” (a little 
yawn). 

“Josephine,” said Laure, gravely, “such; 
small talk is too fearful in this moment of hor- 
rible agitation. A sudden thought ! How come 
you to be so frightfully calm and composed, you, 
the greater poltroon of the two by ever so much ?” 

“By a hair’s breadth, for instance.” 

“I see — you have decided not to move from 
this ambush, come what may. Double coward 
and traitress, that is why you are cool. I flutter 
because at bottom I am brave, because I mean 
to descend like an eagle on him — and fall dead 
with fright at his feet.” 

“Be tranquil — nobody is coming — be reason- 
able. What ground have we for supposing any 
one will be here tliis morning?” 

“Josephine,” cried Laure, eagerly, “that girl i 
knows more than she has told us ; she is in earn- 
est. Depend upon it, as she says, there is some- 
thing up. Kiss me, dear, that will give you cour- 
age — oh ! how my heart beats, and remember 
‘ one and one make — ’ how many ?” 

“How many figures do one cipher added to 
anoth — hush! hush!” cried Josephine, in a 
loud, agitated whisper, and held tip a quivering 
hand, and her glorious bosom began to heave ; 
she pointed several times in rapid succession 
westward through the tree. In a moment Laure 
had her eye glued to a little hole in the tree. 
Josephine had instinctively drawn back from a 
much larger aperture, through which she feared 
site could be seen. 

“Yes,” cried Laure, in a trembling whisper. 

A figure stood in the park, looking over the 
little gate into the Pleasance. 

Josephine kept away from the larger aperture 
through wliich she had caught a glimpse of him. 
Laure kept looking through the little hole, and 
back at Josephine alternately; the figure never 
moved. 

The suspense lasted several minutes. 

Presently, Laure made a sudden movement, 
and withdrew from her peep-hole ; and at the 
same moment Josephine could just hear the gate j 
open. 

The girls came together by one instinct in the 


centre of the tree, but did not dare to speak, scarce 
to breathe. After a while, Laure ventured cau- 
tiously to her peep-hole again ; but she recoiled as 
if shot; he was walking straight for the oak-tree. 
She made a terrified signal to Josephine ac- 
cordingly. He passed slowly out of sight, and the 
next time she peeped she could no longer tell where 
he was. Then the cautious Josephine listened at 
the side of the east fissure, and Laure squinted 
through the little hole in case he should come 
into sight again. While thus employed, she felt a 
violent pinch, and Josephine had seized her by 
the shoulder and was dragging her into one cor- 
ner, at the side of the east fissure. They were 
in the very act of crouching and fiattening each 
into her own corner, when a man’s shadow came 
slap into the tree between them, and there re- 
mained. Each put a hand quick and hard against 
her mouth, or each would have screamed out 
when the sha.dow joined them, forerunner, no 
doubt, of the man himself. 

They glared down at it, and crouched and 
trembled — they had not bargained for this ; they 
had hidden to catch, not to be caught. At last 
they recovered sufficient composure to observe that 
this shadow, one-half of which lay on the ground, 
while the head and shoulders went a little way up 
the wall of the tree, represented a man’s profile, 
not his front face. The figure, in short, was 
standing between them and the sun, and was 
contemplating the chateau, not the tree. 

Still, when the shadow took off its hat to Jo- 
sephine, she would have screamed if she had 
not bitten her plump hand instead. 

It wiped its brow with a handkerchief ; it had 
walked fast, poor thing! The next moment it 
was away. 

Sic transit (jloria viundi. 

They looked at one another and panted. They 
dared not before. Then Laure, with one hand 
on her heaving bosom, shook her little white fist 
viciously at wliere the figure must be, and per- 
haps a comical desire of vengeance stimulated 
her curiosity. She now glided through the fis- 
sure like a cautious panther from her den ; and 
noiseless and supple as a serpent began to wind 
slowly round the tree. She soon came to a 
great protuberance. Her bright eye peeped 
round it ; her lithe body worked into the hollow, 
and was invisible to him she was watching. Jo- 
sephine, a yard behind her, clung also to the oak, 
and waited with glowing eye and cheek for sig- 
nals. 

The cautious visitor had surveyed the ground, 
had strolled with mock carelessness round the 
oak, and was now safe at his goal. He was 
seen to put his hand in his pocket, to draw some- 
thing out and drop it under the lemon-tree ; this 
done, he was heard to vent a little innocent 
chuckle of intense satisfaction, but of brief dura- 
tion. For, the very moment she saw the purse 
leave his hand, Laure made a ra])id signal to 
Josephine to wheel round the other side of the 
tree, and, starting together, with admirable con- 
cert, both the daughters of Beaurepaire swoop- 
ed on him from opposite sides. 

His senses were too quick, and too much on 
the alert, not to hear the rustle the moment they 
started ; but it was too late then. They did not 
walk up to him, or even run. They came so 
fast they must, I think, have fancied they were 
running away instead of charging. 


88 


WHITE LIES. 


He knew nothin^ about their past tremors. 
All he saw or heard was — a rustle, then a flap 
on each side, as of great wings, and two lovely 
women were upon him with angelic swiftness. 

“Ah!” he cried out, with a start of terror, 
and glanced from the first comer, Laure, to the 
park. His instinctive idea was to run that way. 
But Josephine was on that side, caught the look, 
and put up her hand, as much as to say, “You 
can't pass here.” 

In such situations, the mind works quicker 
than lightning. He took oft' his hat, and stam- 
mered an excuse : “ Come to look at the oak.” 
But Laure pounced on the purse and held it up 
to Josephine. 

He was caught. His only chance now was to 
bolt for the great gate and run — but it was not 
the notary — it was a poor little fellow who lost 
his presence of mind, or perhaps thought it rude 
to run when a lady told him to stand still. All 
he did was to crush his face into his two hands, 
round which his cheeks and neck now blushed 
red as blood. Blush? the young women could 
see the color rush like a wave to the very roots 
of his hair and the tips of his fingers. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The moment our heroines, who, in that des- 
peration which is one of the occasional forms of 
cowardice, had hurled themselves on the foe, saw 
they had caught a Chinese and not a Tartar, flash 
— the quick-witted poltroons exchanged a streak 
of purple lightning over the abashed and droop- 
ing head, and were two lionesses of valor and 
dignity in less than half a moment. 

It was with the quiet composure of lofty and 
powerful natures that Josephine opened on him. 

He gave a little wince when the first rich tones 
struck his ear. 

“Compose yourself, monsieur; and be so 
good as to tell us who you are.” 

Edouard must answer. Now he could not 
speak through his hands ; and he could not face 
a brace of lionesses ; so he took a middle course, 
removed one hand, and shading himself from 
Josephine with the other, he gasped out — 

“ I am — my name is Riviere ; and I — I — Oh, 
ladies !” 

“Don’t be frightened,” said Laure, with an 
air of imperial clemency, “we arc not very 
angry.” 

“Ah! thank you, mademoiselle.” 

“So,” resumed Josephine, “tell us what in- 
terest have you in the fortunes of the Baroness 
de Beaurepaire?” 

“I am so confused, or I could perhaps an- 
swer. Mademoiselle, forgive me ; I don’t know 
how it is, I seem not to have an idea left. Suf- 
fer me then, with the greatest respect, to take my 
leave.” And he was for bolting. 

“Not yet, monsieur,” said Josephine. “Lau- 
re !’’ 

Laure went off*, looking behind her every now 
and then. 

After a long silence, Edouard muttered : 

“Do you forgive me, mademoiselle?” 

“ Yes.” Josephine colored, and was not quite , 
so stately. She added : “We should indeed be 1 


harsh judges, monsieur, if we — Ah ! here is 
Laure with the other. Take these twenty louis 
which you have been so kind as to leave here.” 
And her creamy hand held him out the two 
purses. 

The boy started back and put up both his 
hands in a supplicatory attitude. 

“Oh no! ladies — do not — pray do not! Let 
me speak to you. My ideas are coming back. 
I think I can say a word or two now, though 
not as I could wish. Do not reject my friend- 
ship. You are alone in the world ; your father 
is dead; your mother has but you to lean on. 
After all, I am your neighbor, and neighbors 
should be friends. And I am your debtor; I 
owe you more than you could ever owe me ; for 
ever since I came into this neighborhood I have 
been happy. Oh, no man was ever so happy as 
I, ever since one day I met you out walking. 
A single glance, a single smile from an angel 
has done this for me. I owe all my good 
thoughts, if I have any, to her. Before I saw 
her, I vegetated, — now I live. And you talk 
of twenty louis, — well then, yes! I will obey 
you, — I will take them back. So then you will 
perhaps be generous in your turn.. Since you 
mortify me in this, you will grant what you can 
grant without hurting your pride ; you will ac- 
cept my service, my devotion. You have no 
brother, — I have no sister. Let me be your 
brother, and your servant forever.” 

“ Monsieur Riviere,” said Josephine, wu'th her 
delicate curl of her lip, “you offer us too much, 
and we have too little to give you in return. 
Ours is a falling house, and — ” 

“No! no! mademoiselle, you mistake, — you 
are imposed upon. You fancy you are poor, — 
others that do not care for you say so too; but 
I, who owe you so much, I have looked closer 
into your interests, — your estate is grossly mis- 
managed ; forgive me for saying so. You are 
rich at this moment if you had but a friend, — a 
man of business. You are cheated through thick 
and thin, — it is abominable, — and no wonder; 
you are women, and don’t understand business, 
— you are aristocrats, and scorn it.” 

“He is no fool,” said Laure, na’ively. 

‘ ‘ And you banish me who could be of such serv- 
ice to you and to madame the baroness. Yet 
you say you forgive my officiousness, but I fear 
you do not. Ah ! no, this vile money has ruin- 
ed me with you.” 

“No! monsieur, no! — you have earned and 
well merited our esteem.” 

“But not your acquaintance?” 

The ladies both looked down a little ashamed. 

“ See now,” said the boy, bitterly, “ how rea- 
sonable etiquette is. If I had happened to dine 
at some house where you dined, and some per- 
son whom neither of us respected had said to 
you, ‘ Suffer me to present Monsieur Edouard 
Riviere to you,’ I should have the honor and 
blessing of your acquaintance, — that would have 
been an introduction, — but all this is none, and 
you will never, never speak to me again.” 

“ He is any thing but ft fool !” said Laure. 

A look of ardent gratitude from Edouard. 

“He is very young,” said Josephine, “and 
thinks to give society new rules ; society is too 
strong to be dictated to by him or you ; let us 
I be serious; a])proach. Monsieur Edouard.” 

1 Edouard came a little nearer, and fixed two 


WHITE LIES. 


beseeching eves on her a moment, then lowered 
them. 

“ Ere we part, and part we must, — for your 
path lies one way, ours another, — hear me, who 
speak in the name of all this ancient house. 
Your name is not quite new to me, — I believe 
you are a Republican officer, monsieur ; but you 
have acted en gentilhoinme. ” 

“ Mademoiselle — ” 

“ May your career be brilliant, Monsieur Edou- 
ard ! may those you have been taught to serve, 
and whom you gi’eatly honor by serving, be more 
grateful to you than circumstances permit this 
family to be ; we, who were beginning to de- 
spair of human goodness, thank you, monsieur, 
for showing us the world is still embellished with 
hearts like yours !” And she suddenly held 
him out her hand like a pitying goddess, her 
purple eye dwelling on him with all the heaven 
of sentiment in it. 

He bowed his head over her hand, and kissed 
it again and again. 

“ You will make him cry, that will be the next 
thing,” said Laure, with a little gulp. 

“No ! no!” said Josephine, “ he is too much 
of a man to cry.” 

“ Oh no, mademoiselle, I will not expose my- 
self.” 

“And see,” said Josephine, in a motherly 
tone, “ though we return your poor gold, we 
keep both purses; Laure takes this one, my 
mother and I this one ; they will be our souve- 
nirs of one who wished to oblige without humil- 
iating us.” 

“ And I think,” said Laure, “ as his gold is 
so fugitive, I had better imprison it in this purse, 
which I have just made, — there, — it would be un- 
courteous to return him his money loose, you 
know I” 

“ Ah I mademoiselle, what goodness ! Oh, 
be assured it shall be put to no such base use as 
carrying money.” 

“Adieu, then, Monsieur Riviere !” 

The two sisters were now together, their arms 
round one another. 

“Mademoiselle Laure, Mademoiselle Jose- 
phine, conceive if you can my happiness and my 
disappointment, — adieu ! — adieu I — adieu!” 

He was gone as slowly and unwillingly as it 
is possible to go. 

“ Inaccessible !” said he to himself, sadly, as 
he went slowly home; “quite inaccessible! 
Yet there was a moment after the first surprise 
when I thought — but no. All the shame of 
such a surprise, and yet I am no nearer them 
than before. I am very unhappy! No! I am 
not. I am the happiest man in France.” 

Then he acted the. scene all over again, only 
more adroitly, and blushed again at his want of 
presence of mind, and concocted speeches for past 
use, and was hot and cold by turns. 

“ Poor boy,” said Josephine, “ he is gone 
away sad, and that has saddened me. But I 
did my duty, and he will yet live to thank me 
for freezing at once an attachment I could never 
have requited.” 

“ Have you finished your observations, love ?” 
asked Laure, dryly. 

“Yes, Laure.” 

“ Then — to business.” 

“To business?” 

“Yes! — no! don’t go in yet. A little ar- 


39 

rangement between us two arises necessarily out 
of this affair, — that is how the notary talks, — 
and it is as well to settle it at once, say I ; be- 
cause, love, in a day or two, you know, it might 
be too late — ahem !” 

“But settle what ?’’ 

“Which of us two takes him, dear, — that is 
all.” 

“Takes whom ?” 

“^Idouard !” explained Laure, demurely, low- 
ering her eyes. 

Josephine glared with wonder and comical 
horror upon the lovely minx. And after a long 
look too big for words, she said : — 

“Next did I not understand Jacintha to say 
that it Avas me the poor child dreams of ?” 

“Oh, you shall have him, my sister,” put in 
the sly minx, warmly, “ if you insist on it.” 

“What words are these? I shall be angry 
at the end.” 

“Ah, I must not annoy you by too great im- 
portunity, neither. You have only to say you 
decline him.” 

“ Decline him ? poor boy ! He has never 
asked me. ” 

“In short, on one pretense or another, you 
decline to decline him.” 

“ How dare you, Laure ? Of course I decline 
him.” 

“Thank you, my sister,” cried Laure hastily, 
and kissed her; “ it is the prettiest present you 
ever gave me, — except your love. Ah ! what is 
that on your hand ? It is wet, — it looks like dew 
on a lily. It is a tear from his eye, — ^you cruel 
woman.” 

“No! it was when I spoke kindly to him. 
I remember noAV, I did feel something! Poor 
child !” 

“ Heart of marble ! that affects pity, — an 
hour after. Stay ! since our agreement, this be- 
longs to me:” and she drew out a back comb, 
and down fell a mass of rich brown hair. She 
swept the dew off the lily with it, and did it up 
again Avith a turn of the hand. Josephine 
sighed deeply. 

“My sister, you frighten me. Do not run 
thus Avantonly to the edge of a precipice. Take 
Avarning by me. Oh, Avhy did Ave come out ? 
Jacintha, Avhat haA'e you done! I” 

“This dear Josephine, Avith her misgivings! 
confess you take me for a fool. ” 

“ I take you for a child that will play Avith fire 
if not prcA’cnted.” 

“At nineteen and a half one is no longer a 
child. Oh, the blindness of our elders! I knoAV 
you by heart, Josephine, but you only know a lit- 
tle bit of me. You have only observed the side I 
turn to you, whom I loA^e better than I shall 
love any man. Keep your pity for Monsieur Ri- 
viere if ever he does fall into my hands, not for 
me. In a AAwd, Josephine, the hour is come for 
making you a reA-elation. I am not a child. I 
am a Avoman !” 

“Ah! all the Averse.” 

“But not the sort of Avoman you are, — and 
Heaven be thanked for both our sakes I am 
not !” 

Josephine opened her eyes. “ She neA'cr 
talked like this to me before, — this is your 
doing. Monsieur Riviere. Unhappy girl, Avhat 
are you, then? — not like me, Avho you love 


40 


WHITE LIES. 


“No, my sister, I huve the honor to be your 
opposite.” 

“My opposite!” cried Josephine, very rue- 
fully. 

“I am a devil!!” exclaimed Laure, in a 
mysterious whisper, but with perfect gravity 
and conviction, aiming at Josephine with her 
forefinger, to point the remark. She allowed 
just one second for this important statement to 
sink into her sister’s mind, then straightwi# set 
to and gambolled in a most elfish way round 
and round her as Josephine moved stately and 
thoughtful across the grass to the chateau. 

It may well be supposed what was the subject 
of conversation at breakfast, and indeed all the 
day. The young ladies, however, drew only 
the broader outlines of their story ; with a 
natural reserve, they gave no direct hint that 
they thought Monsieur Riviere was in love with 
one of them. They left their hearers to see that 
or not, as might be. 

The baroness, on her part, was not disposed 
to put love ideas into her daughters’ heads; she 
therefore, though too shrewd not to suspect Dan 
Cupid’s hand in this, reserved her suspicions, 
and spoke of Riviere’s act as any one might, 
looking only at its delicate, generous, and dis- 
interested side. 

Male sagacity, in the person of St. Aubin, 
prided itself on its superior shrewdness, held the 
same language as the others, but smiled secret- 
ly all the time at female credulity. 

Scarce three days had elapsed, three weaiy 
days to a friend of ours, when Jacintha, looking 
through the kitchen window, saw the signal of 
distress flying from a tree in the park. She 
slipped out, and there was Edouard Riviere. 
Her tongue went off with a clash at the moment 
of contact with him, like a cymbal. First she 
exulted over him ; “How had it answered try- 
ing to draw the wool over Jacintha’s eyes, eli ?” 
then she related her own sagacity, telling him, 
as such characters are apt to, half the story. 
She suppressed Dard’s share, for she might want 
a similar service from Dard again — who knows ? 
But she let him know it was she who had set 
the ladies in ambush at that time in the morn- 
ing. 

At this young Riviere raised his hands, and 
eyed her as a moral alligator. She faced the 
examination with cold composure, lips parted 
in a brazen smile, and arms akimbo. 

“Oh, Jacintha, you can stand there and tell 
me this ; what malice ! all because out of deli- 
cacy, misplaced perhaps, I did not like to tell 
you.” 

“So then you don’t see I have been your best 
friend, ungratefully as you used me?” 

“No, Jacintha, indeed I can not see that,— 
you have ruined me. Judge for yourself.” 

Then he told her all that had happened in the 
Pleasance. Very little of it was news to her. 
Still it interested and excited her to hear it all 
told in a piece, and from his point of view. 

“ So you see, my poor Jacintha, you have 
got me dismissed, kindly, but oh ! so coldly and 
firmlv, — all hope is now dead — alas!” 

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!” 

“ Jacintha, do you laugh at the extinction of 
my hopes?” 

“ Ha! ha ! so she has given you congd?" 

“Yes, and all that remains for me — ” 


“Is not to take it,” .said Jacintha. 

“ Oh no !” said Riviere, sadly, but firmly ; 
“debarred her love, let me at least have her 
respect.” 

“Her respect? how can she respect a man 
who turns tail at the first word ?” 

“But that word is hers, whose lightest word 
a true and loyal lover is bound to obey to his 
own cost. Am I not to take a lady at her 
word?” 

“Oh! oh! little sot, — no. I must run and 
make the coffee.” 

“Malediction on the coffee! how can you 
have the heart to think of coffee now, dear Ja- 
cintha? Do, pray, explain.” 

“What is the use, if you will go and dream 
that a lady is a man ?” 

“No, no! I won’t fancy any thing; tell me 
about women, then, if you think you can un- 
derstand them.” 

“I will then. Above all mortal things they 
despise faint-hearted men. They are on the 
lookout for something stronger than a woman. 
A woman hates to have to make the advances. 
She likes to be always retreating, yet never be 
off. She is not content to take what she wants, 
and thank God for it, and that is a man. She 
must play with it like a cat with a mouse. She 
must make difficulties. The man he is to tram- 
ple on them. She made them to no other end. 
If he is such a fool as to let them trample on 
him. Heaven have mercy on him, for she won’t! 
Her twor delights are, saying ‘no’ half a dozen 
times, and saying ‘yes’ at last. If you take 
her at her word at the first ‘no’ you cause her 
six bitter disappointments ; for then she can’t 
get to say the other ‘no’s,’ and, worst of all, 
she can’t get to say the ‘ yes ’ that she was look- 
ing forward to, and that was in her heart all 
along. Now, my young mistress is half angel 
and half woman, so, if you give her up because 
she bids you, she will only des})ise you ; but if 
it was my other young lady or me, we should 
hate you as well.” 

“Hate me? for self-denial and obedience?” 

“ No ! Hate you for being a fool ! Hale you 
with a bitterness — there, hate you as you could 
not hate any thing.” 

“I can’t believe it ! What horrible injustice!” 

“Justice! who looks to us for justice? We 
arc good creatures, but we don’t trouble our 
heads with justice ; it is a word you shall never 
hear a woman use, unless she happens .to be 
doing some monstrous injustice at that very mo- 
ment ; that is our rule about justice — so, there.’’ 

“Jacintha, your views of your sex are hard 
and cynical. Women are nobler and better than 
men !” 

“Ay! ay! you see them a mile off. I see 
them too near : they can’t })ass for rainbows 
here.” 

“Pass for rainbows — he! he! S])eak for 
yourself, Jacintha, and for coquettes, and for 
j vulgar women ; but do not blaspheme those an- 
gelic natures with which I was for one short mo- 
ment in contact.” 

‘ ‘ Ah bah ! we arc all tarred with the same 
stick, angels and all — the angels that wear stays.” 

“ 1 can not think so. Besides, you were not 
I there ; you did not hear how kindly yet how 
I firmly she thanked, yet bade me adieu.” 

1 “ I tell you, a word in a man’s mouth is a 


WHITE LIES. 


41 


thing, but in a woman’s it is only a word.” At 
this point, without any previous warning, she 
went into a passion like gunpowder kindled. 
“Take your own way!” she cried; “this boy 
knows more than I do. So be it, — let us speak 
no more of it.” 

“Cruel Jacintha, to quarrel with me, who 
have no other friend. There — I am your pupil ; 
for, after all, your sagacity is great. Advise me 
like a sister — I listen.’' 

“Like a sister! Ah, my child, do not say 
that.” 

“ Why not ? Yes, do.” 

“ No ; good advice is never welcome.” 

“ It is so seldom given kindly.” 

“Oh, as to that, I could not speak unkindly 
to you, my little cabbage ; hut I sliall make you 
unhappy, and then I shall be unhappy ; for you 
see, with all our faults, we have not bad hearts.” 

“ Speak, Jacintha.” 

“ I am going to ; and when I have spoken, I 
shall never see your pretty face again so near to 
mine — so you see I am disinterested ; and — 
Oh how I hate telling the truth !” cried she, 
with pious fervor ; “it always makes everv body 
miserable.” 

“Jacintha, remember what you said in its 
favor the first time we met.” 

“ I can not remember for my part, and what 
signifies what I said ? Words — air ! Well, my 
poor child, I will advise you like a mother, — 
give her up.” 

“ Give her up ?” 

“ Think ho more of her : for there is a thing 
in yOurway that is as hard to get over as all her 
nonsensical words would be easy.” 

“ Oh, what is it? You make me tremble.” 

“ It is a man.” 

“Ah!” 

“ There is another man in the way.” 

“ Who ? — that vile old doctor ?” 

“ Oh, if it was no worse than that ! No ! it 
is a young one. Oh, you don’t know him, — he 
has not been here for years ; but what of that, if 
his image lies in her heart? And it does. I 
listened the other day, and I heard something 
that opened my eyes. I am cruel to you, my 
son, — forgive me !” 

Jacintha scarcely dared look at her feeble- 
minded novice. She did not like to see her 
blow fall, and him stagger and turn pale under 
it. When she did look, lo and behold ! he was 
red instead of pale. 

“What is he?” was the question, in a stern 
voice. 

“ lie is a soldier.” 

“ I am glad of that : then he will fight, and 
ril kill him.” 

“ Hear to that now !” 

“ And you think I will give in now ! resign 
lier to an unworthy rival ?” 

“Who said he was unworthy?” 

“ I say so.” 

“ What makes you fancy that ?” 

“ Because he never comes near the place, be- 
cause he neglects what none but a villain could 
neglect, the greatest treasure in the world. No ! 
he deserves to lose it, — and he shall lose it. 
Thank you, Jacintha! you show me my folly. 
I will not take her cong6 now, rely on it. No ! 
no ! if she bade me do any thing in the world to 
please her, and her alone, I would do it, though 


I had to go through fire, and water, and blood, 
and break my heart doing it. But if she asks 
me to make way for a rival, I answer, — never! — 
never ! — never !” 

“ But if she loves him ?” 

“A passing fancy, and the object of it un- 
w'orthy : it is my duty to cure her of a mis- 
placed attachment that can never make her 
happy, sweet angel ! she will live to thank me, — 
to bless me ! I say, whose side are you on, — 
his or mine ?” 

“Wretch, do you ask me?” 

“ Do they walk in the park ?” 

“Half an hour every day.” 

“ What time ?” 

“ Uncertain.” 

“And I can’t see into the park for that groat 
infernal elm-tree at the corner; it just blocks 
up my window, — if I cut it down some night, 
will you tell ?” 

“Not I. Would you really have the fore- 
head to cut down one of the Beaurepaire elms ? 
— holy saints !” 

“Look for it to-morrow,” said he, grimly, 
“ and look low enough, or you won’t see it. I’ll 
cut one of your elms down with as little remorse 
as I would half a dozen rivals.” 

“ He is mad, — after all I want firewood, 
and above all I want brushwood for my 
oven : foy you are to understand, my frieml, 
there is some meal come in from the tenants, 
and so — ” 

“That’s right! think kitchen! talk kitchen', 
pray does your soul live in a kitchen as well as 
your body ?” 

“ Monsieur !” 

“ Forgive me, my blood is on fire, I take your 
advice; you shall never have to spur me again. 
It is clear you know the sex best : she shall 
make as many difficulties as she pleases. She 
shall say ‘no’ twelve times instead of six if it 
amuses her : I will court her, I will besiege her, 
I’ll fight for her against all the soldiers on earth, 
and all the fiends in you know where.” Whir, — 
he was away. 

Jacintha gazed after her pupil and firework 
with ardent admiration so long as his graceful, 
active figure was in sight. 

Then she fell into a reverie, — an unusual mood 
with this active personage. 

It is not customary, in polite fiction, to go into 
the reflecting part of a servant-maid ; let us 
therefore make a point of doing it, for to be 
vulgar in the eyes of snobs and snobbesses is no 
mean distinction. 

“Look there now! — humph — they say you 
should give and take. Well, I gave a lesson : 
and now I have taken one. 

“ From fourteen to fourscore a man is a man, 
and a woman is a woman. Write that in your 
mass books, for it is as true as gospel. Ah well ! 
school is never over while we are in the world. 
I thought I knew something too : but I was all 
behind. Now to me a woman is the shallowest 
thing the good God ever made. I can plumb it 
with my forefinger. But to a man they are as 
deep as the ocean. And, no doubt, men can 
read one another: but they beat me. She put 
up a straw between him and her, and he fell back 
as if it was Goliah’s spear, that was as thick as — 
wh.at was it as thick as? I showed him an iron 
door between them, and he flies at it as if it was 


42 


WHITE LIES. 


a sheet of brown paper. Mother of Heaven ! 
MY pot! my pot!” 

She fled wildly. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Oh! madame the baroness, there is a tree 
blown down in tlie park.” 

“ Impossible, child ! there was no wind at all 
last night.” 

“ No, madame, but there was a night or two 
ago.” 

Laure giggled. 

“ Well, mademoiselle, that might loosen it !” 

Laure laughed ; but the baroness was grave. 

“ Let us all go and look at it, ” said she, sadly ; 
a tree was an old friend to her. 

There lay the monster on the earth, that was 
ploughed and harrowed by its hundred arms and 
thousand fingers ; its giant proportions now first 
revealed by the space of earth it covered, and the 
friglitful gap its fall left in the air and the pros- 
pect. The doctor inspected the tree in detail, 
and especially the stump, and said, “ Humph !” 

The baroness looked only at the mass and the 
ruin. 

“An ill omen, my children,” said she. “ It 
stood out the storm ; and then one calm night it 
fell. And so it will be with the house of Beaure- 
paire.” 

“ Ah,, well,” said Jacintha, in a comfortable 
tone, “ now you are down, we must do the best 
we can with you. I wanted some firewood — and 
I wanted small wood terribly.” 

The baroness shrugged her shoulders at this 
kitchen philosophy, and moved away with Jose- 
phine. 

The doctor detained Laure. “Now it is no 
use telling your mother, to annoy her, but this 
tree has been cut down.” 

“ Impossible !” 

“•Fact. Come and look at the stub. Oh, I 
liave stood and seen thousands of trees felled — 
it is an interesting operation ; comes next to tak- 
ing off a — hem ! See how clean three-fourths 
of the wood have come away. They have had 
the cunning to cut three feet above the ground, 
too ; but this is not Nature’s work — it is man’s. 
Laure, it w^anted but this ; you have an enemy — 
a secret enemy. ” 

“Ah!” cried Laure, with flashing eyes, and 
making her hand into an angular snowball ; “oh ! 
that I had him here ! I’d — Ah ! ah !” 

This doughty threat ended in two screams, for 
a young gentleman sprang from the road over the 
hedge, and alighted close to them. He took off 
his hat, and, blushing like a rose, poured out a 
flood of excuses. 

“ Mademoiselle — monsieur, I saw that a large 
tree had fallen, and my curiosity — forgive my in- 
discretion,” — and he affected to retreat, but cast 
a lingering look at the fallen tree. 

“Remain, monsieur,” said St. Aubin, politely ; 
“and as your eyes are younger than mine, I will 
even ask you to examine the stump and also the 
tree, and tell me whether my suspicions are cor- : 
rect. Has this tree fidlen by accident, or by the | 
hand of man ? Pronounce, monsieur.” ! 

Riviere darted on the stump with the fire of j 
curiosity in his face, and examined it keenly. I 
His deportment was not bad comedy. ! 


He pronounced : “ This trechas been cut down. 
See, mademoiselle,” cried the young rogue, de- 
termined to bring her into the conversiition, 
“ observe this cut here in the wood ; look, here 
are the marks of the teeth of a saw.” 

This brought Laure close to him, and he gave 
a prolix explanation to keep her there, and asked 
her whether she saw this, and whether she saw 
that; so then she was obliged to speak to him. 
He proved to their entire satisfaction that some- 
body had cut down the elm. 

“The rogue!” cried St. Aubin. 

“ The wretch-!” cried Laure. 

Riviere looked down, and resumed his inspec- 
tion of the stump. 

“ Oh that I had him !” cried Laure, still at 
fever heat. 

“I wish you had, mademoiselle,” said Edou- 
ard, with a droll look. Then, with an air of im- 
posing gravity : “ Monsieur,” says he, “I have 
the honor to serve the government in this district, 
as you may perhaps be aware.” 

St. Aubin looked to Laure for explanation. 

She would not give any, because by revealing 
the young man’s name she would have enabled 
St. Aubin to put the purse and this jump over the 
hedge together. She colored at the bare thought, 
but said nothing. 

Riviere went on. 

“ If you really suspect this has been done out 
of malice, I will set an inquiry on foot.” 

“You are very good, monsieur. It certainly 
is a mysterious affair.” 

“In short, give yourself no further anxiety 
about it, sir. I take it into my hands, — in doing 
so, I merely discharge my duty ; need I add, 
mademoiselle, that duty is for once a pleasure ? 
If any of the neighbors is the culprit, it will tran- 
spire ; if not, still the present government is, I 
assure you, sir, a Briareus, and one of its hands 
will fall sooner or later on him who has dared to 
annoy you, mademoiselle.” 

As a comment on these words of weight, he 
drew out his pocket-book with such an air : made 
a minute or two, and returned it to his pocket. 

“ Monsieur, mademoiselle, receive once more 
my excuses for my indiscreet curiosity, which I 
shall never cease to regret, unless it should lead 
to the discovery of what you have at heart.” 
And he bowed himself away. 

“ A charming young man, my dear.” 

“What, that little buck — do you see chai-ms 
in him ? — where ?” 

“ Buck ? a young Apollo, beaming with good- 
ness as well as intelligence.” 

“Oh! oh! oh! doctor!” 

“ I have not seen such a face for ever so long,” 
cried the doctor, getting angry. 

“ I don’t desire to see such another for ev^er so 
long.” 

“ Confess, at least, that his manners are singu- 
larly graceful.” 

“Republican ease, doctor — admire it those 
who cany 

“ It was the respectful ease of a young person, 
not desirous to attract attention to his own grace, 
but simply to be polite.” 

“ Now I thought his flying over our hedge, and 
taking our affairs on him and his little pocket- 
book, a great piece of effrontery. ” 

“If it had not been done with equal modesty 
and deference,” replied St. Aubin; “but the 


WHITE LIES. 


43 


poor boy is a Republican. So you can not be | 
just. Oh, politics! politics! — you madden the 
brain — you bandage tlie judgment — you corrupt 
the heart — let us see whether they have blinded 
your very eyes. Come, did you notice his color, 
— roses and lilies side by side ? Come now.” 

“ A boy’s complexion, staring red and white ! 
—Yes.” 

“ And his eyes full of soul.” 

“ Yes, he had wildish eyes. If you w’ant to be 
stared out of countenance, send for Monsieur 
Riv — hum — what did he say his name w’as ?” 

“I forget. A figure like Antinous, with all 
Diana’s bounding grace.” 

“ Oh, he can jump high enough to frighten 
one; enchanting quality.” 

“Well, mademoiselle, I shall not subject him 
to further satire by praising him. He serves 
France, and not the Bourbons; and is therefore 
a monster, ugly and even old. Let us speak of 
more important matters.” 

“If you please,” said Laure dryly. And they 
did. 

And the effect of the rise in themes was that 
Laure became distracted, and listened badly ; 
and every now and then she slipped back to the 
abandoned subject, and made a number of half- 
concessions, one at a time, in favor of the young 
Republican’s looks, manners and conduct — all to 
please the doctor. So that at last she and St. 
Aubin were not so very far apart in their estimate 
of the youth. Arrived at the park gate leading 
into the Pleasance, she turned suddenly round, 
beamed and blushed all over with pleasure, and 
put her arms round tho pu/.zled doctor’s neck and 
kissed him ; then scudded off like a rabbit after 
her sister, who w’as on the south terrace. 

“ Dard, I’ve a little job for you,” cried Jacin- 
tha, cheerily. 

“ Ugh ! oh ! have you ?” 

“You must put up the grindstone. Stop! 
don’t go off — that is not all. Ihit a handle in 
it, and then sharpen the great axe — the hatchet 
is not a bit of use.” 

“ Any more ?” 

“ Yes ; to-morrow you must go into the park 
with your wheelbarrow, and cut me billet-wood 
for up-stairs and small wood for my oven.” 

The much-enduring man set about this new 
job. 

The demoiselles De Beaurepaire, coming out 
into the park for their afternoon walk, saw a 
figure hacking away at the fallen tree. They 
went towards it near enough to recognize Dard : 
then they turned and took their usual walk. 
They made sure Jacintha had ordered him to do 
it. 

They had not been in the park a minute be- 
foi-e a telescope was levelled from a window at 
them, and the next moment M. Edouard was 
running up the road to Beaurepaire. 

Now as he came near the fallen tree he heard 
loud cries for help, followed by groans of pain. 
He bounded over the hedge, and there was Dard 
hanging over his axe faint and moaning. 

“ What is the matter? — what is the matter?” 
cried Edouard, running to him. 

“ Oh ! oh ! — cut my foot.” 

Edouard looked, and turned sick, for there 
was a gash right through Dard’s shoe, and the 
blood welling up through it. But, recovering 
himself by an eifort of the will, he cried out : 


“ Courage, my lad ! don’t give in — thank Heav- 
en there’s no artery there. Oh dear, it is a terri- 
ble cut ! Let us get. you home, that is the first 
thing ! Can you walk ?” 

“ Lord bless you, no ! nor stand either with- 
out help.” 

Edouard flew to the wheelbarrow, and revers- 
ing it spun a lot of billet out. 

“Ye must not do that,” said Dard, with all 
the energy he was capable of<in his present con- 
dition — “ why, that is Jacintha’s wood.” 

“ To the devil with Jacintha and her wood 
too !” cried Edouard, “ a man is worth more 
than a fagot. Come, Dard, I shall wheel you 
home : it is only just across the park.” 

With some difficulty he lifted him into the bar- 
row. 

“Ah ! how lucky,” he cried, “I have got my 
shooting-jacket on, so here’s my brandy-flask : 
take a suck at it, old fellow — and courage !” 

Dard stretched out his hand with sudden an- 
imation for the flask, and it was spon glued to 
his lips. 

Now the ladies, as they walked, saw a man 
w'heeling a barrow across the park, and took no 
particular notice ; but, as Riviere was making 
for the same point, presently the barrow came 
near enough for them to see a man’s head and 
arms in it. Laure was the first to notice this. 

“ Look ! look !” said she, “ if he is not wheel- 
ing Dard in the barrow now.” 

“ Who ?” 

“Do you ask who? Who provides all our 
amusement?” 

“ Laure, I do not like this. I am afraid there 
is something wrong. Consider, Monsieur Riviere 
would not wheel Dard all across the park for 
amusement. ’ 

“ Oh, let us run and see,” cried Laure. 

Now Riviere did not intend them to see ; he 
had calculated on getting to the corner a consid- 
erable time before the promenaders. But they 
hastened their speed, and defeated his intention. 
He had taken his coat off too, and made a great 
effort to beat them. 

“Dard,” said he, “now here are the young 
ladies, vvhat a pity — put my coat over your foot, 
that is a good fellow.” 

“ What for ?” said Dard, sulkily. “No! let 
them see what they have done with their little 
odd jobs : this is my last for one while. I sha’n’t 
go on two legs again this year,” 

The ladies came up with them. 

“ Oh, monsieur,” said Josephine, “ what is the 
matter?” 

“ We have met with a little accident, made- 
moiselle, that is all. Dard has hurt his foot — 
nothing to speak of, but I thought he would be 
best at home.” 

Laure raised the coat which Riviere, in spite 
of Dard, had flung over his foot, and removed it. 

“ Oh, he is bleeding ! Dard is bleeding ! Oh, 
my poor Dard. Oh ! oh ! oh !” 

“ Hush ! Laure ! Laure !” 

“No! don’t put him out of heart, mademoiselle. 
Take another pull at the flask, Dard. If you 
please, ladies, I must have him home without de- 
lay.” 

“Oh yes, but I want him to have a surgeon,” 
cried Josephine. “ Ah ! why are we so poor, 
and no horses nor people to send off as Ave used 
to have ?” 


44 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Mucicmoiscllc, have no fears. Dard shall 
have the best surgeon in the district by his side in 
less than an hour : the town is but two short 
leagues off.’’ 

“ Have you a horse then ?” 

“ No; but I am as good a runner as any for 
miles round. I’ll run it out in half an hour or 
die at it, and I’ll send the surgeon up full gallop.” 

“Ah ! Heaven bless you, monsieur, you have 
a good heart,” crie^ Josephine. 

“ Oil yes ! Heaven bless him,” cried Laure. 

He was already gone : but these sweet words 
rang in his ears, and ran warm round and round 
his heart, as he straightened his arms and his 
back to the work. When they had gone about 
a hundred yards a single snivel went off in the 
wheelbarrow.* 

Five minutes after, Dard was at home in charge 
of his grandmother, his shoe off, his foot in a wet 
linen cloth ; and the statesman, his coat tied 
round the neck, squared his shoulders and ran the 
two short leagues out. He ran them in thirty-five 
minutes, found the surgeon at home, told the case, 
pooh-poohed that worthy’s promise to go to the 
jtatient presently, darted into his stables, saddled 
the horse, brought him round, saw the surgeon 
into the saddle, started him, dined at the restau- 
rateur’s, strolled back, and w'as in time to get a 
good look at the chateau of Beaurepaire before 
the sun set on it. 

»■ — 

CHAPTER X. 

Jacinth A came into Dard’s cottage that even- 

i„g. 

“So you have been and done it, my man,” 
cried .she, cheerfully and rather roughly ; then 
sat down and rocked herself, with her apron over 
her head. 

She explained this anomalous proceeding to 
his grandmother privately. 

“ I thought I would keep his heart up any way ; 
but j'ou see I was not fit.” 

Calmer, she comforted Dard, and ended by 
cross-questioning him. The young ladies had 
told her what they had seen, and, though Dard 
was too wrapped up in himself to dwell with any 
gusto upon Edouard’s zeal and humanity, still, 
as far as facts went, he confirmed the ladies’ 
comments. 

Jacintha’s heart yearned towards the young 
man. She was in town the next day making a 
purchase or two, so she called on him. 

“ I thought I would just step in to put a ques- 
tion to you. Would you like to get a word tvith 
her alone ?” 

“Oh, Jacintha!” 

“ Hush ! don’t shout like that ; w'hy, you may 
be sure she is alone sometimes, though not very 
often. They love one another so, those two.” 

Jacintha then developed her plan. 

As the clout was his signal, so she must have 
a signal to show when she wanted to speak to 
him, and that signal should be a sheet, which 
she would hang over the battlement of Ileaure- 
paire Chateau. 

“ So when you see a white sheet, you come 
to me — the quicker the better.” 

*I b' g the polite writer’s pardon : first, for wheeling it 
on to the setne at all ; secondly, for not calling it a mono- 
troch. 


“ You dear girl,” 

“ Oh, it is the least I can do now. You know 
what I mean. I won’t speak about it. Words 
in a woman’s mouth — I told you wdiat they are. 
No, I won’t end in steam, like boiling w-ater does, 
1 won’t say, I'll show you what you have done, 
my angel.” 

Her eyes told him all the same. 

“ Wliere is my clout? You never left it out 
there on the tree, did you ?” and she looked sol- 
emn. 

“Jacintha! on my knees I demand pardon 
for my fatal heedlessness.” 

Jacintha put her hand under her apron and 
pulled out the clout. 

“There,” said she, and threw it him. “ Now 
suppose you had wanted to speak to me — ah well, 
w'e can’t have all. You have a good heart, but 
no head.” 

Dard’s grandmother had a little house, a little 
land, a little money, and a little cow. She could 
just keep Dard and herself, and her resources 
enabled Dard to do so many little odd jobs for 
love, yet keep his favorite organ tolerably filled. 

“ Go to bed, my little son, since you are hash- 
ed,” said Dard’s grandmother. 

“ Bed be hanged,” cried he. “ What good is 
bed ? That’s another silly old custom wants do- 
ing away with. It weakens you — it turns you 
into train oil — it is the doctor's friend, and the 
patient’s enemy. Many a one shuts up through 
taking to bed, that could have got through his 
trouble, if he had kept his feet like a man. If 
I tvas dying I would not go to bed till I went to 
the bed with a spade in it. No ! sit up like Ju- 
lius Cficsar, and die as you lived, in your clothes: 
don’t strip yourself : let the old w’omen strip you 
— that is their delight laying out a chap : that 
is the time they brighten up, the old sorceress- 
es.” He concluded this amiable rhapsody, the 
latter part of which was levelled at a lugubrious 
weakness of his grandmother’s for the superflu- 
ous embellishment of the dead, by telling her it 
was bad enough to be tied by the foot like an 
ass, without settling down on his back like a cast 
sheep. “ Give me the arm-chair. I’ll sit in it, 
and if I have any friends they will show’ it now : 
they will come and tell me what is going on in 
the village, for I can’t get out to see it and hear 
it, they must know that.” 

Seated in state in his granny’s easy-chair, the 
loss of which after thirty years’ use made her mis- 
erable, she couldn’t tell why, le Sieur Dard await- 
ed his friends. 

His friends did not come. 

The rain did, and poured all the afternoon. 
Night came, and solitude. Dard boiled over 
with bitterness. 

“ They arc then a lot of pigs ; all those fellows 
I have drank with at Bigot’s and Sirnmet’s. 
Down with all fair-weather friends ! !” 

The next day the sun shone, the air was clear, 
and the sky blue. 

“Ah ! let us see now,” cried Dard. 

Alas ! no fellotv-drinkers, no fellow-smokers, 
came to console their hurt fellow'. And Dard, 
w’ho had boiled with anger yesterday, was now 
sad and despondent. 

“ Down with egoists,” he groaned. 

However, about three in the afternoon came a 
tap at the door. 


WHITE LIES. 


45 


■> 


“ Ah ! at last,” cried Dard : “ come in !” 

The door was slowly opened, and two lovely 
faces appeared at the threshold. The demoiselles 
I)e Beaurepaire wore a tender look of interest 
and pity when they caught sight of Dard, and 
on the old woman courtesying to them they cour- 
tcsied to her and Dard. But when Dard put 
his arms on the chair to rise and salute them, 
Laurc put up her finger and peremptorily forbade 
him. The next moment they were close to him, 
one a little to his right, the other to his left, and 
two pair of sapphire eyes with the mild lustre of 
sympathy playing down incessantly upon him. 
How was he? How had he slept ? Was he in 
pain? Was he in much pain? tell the truth 
now. Was there any thing to eat or drink he 
could fancy ? Jacintha should make it and bring 
it, if it was within their means. 

A prince could not have had more solicitous 
attendants ; nor a fairy king lovelier and less 
earthly ones. 

He looked in heavy amazement from one to 
the other. Laure laughed at him, then Josephine 
smiled. Laure bent, and was by some supple 
process on one knee, taking the measure of the 
wounded foot. When she first approached it he 
winced ; but the next moment he smiled. He 
had never been touched like this — it was contact 
and no contact — she treated his foot as the zephyr 
the violets — she handled it as if it had been some 
sacred thing. By the help of his eye he could 
just know she was touching him. 

“There, monsieur, you are measured for a list 
shoe.” 

“And I will make it for you, Dard,” said Jo- 
sephine. 

Don’t you believe her, Dard : 1 shall make 
it : she is indolent.” 

“ We will both make it, then,”said Josephine. 

Dard grinned an uncertain grin. 

At the door they turned and sent back each a 
smile brimful of comfort, promise, and kindness, 
to stay with him till next visit. 

Dard scratched his head. 

Dard pondered half an hour in silence thus, 
or thereabouts. 

The old woman had been to milk the cow. 

She now came into the kitchen. 

Dard sang out lustily to her : “ Granny, I’m 
better. Keep your heart up, old lady : we sha’n’t 
die this bout. I am good for a few more little 
odd jobs,” said he, wdth a sudden tincture of 
bitterness. 

Presently in came Jacintha with a basket, cry- 
ing, “ I have not a minute to stay now : Dard, 
my young ladies have sent you two bottles of 
Burgundy — you won’t like that — and here is a 
loaf I have just made. And now I must go 
and she staid three quarters of an hour with 
him, and cheered him mightily. 

At dusk Riviere rode by, fastened his horse up, 
and came bustling in. 

“ How do we get on, dame ?” 

“ Pretty well, monsieur. lie was very dull 
at first, but now he is brightened up a bit, poor 
thing. All the great folks come here to see him 
— the demoiselles De Beaurepaire and all.” 

“Ah ! that is like them.” 

“ Oh, as to that, my little son is respected far 
and wide,” said the old lady, inflating herself; 
and as gratitude can not live an instant with 
conceit, she went on to suy, “ and after all it is 


the least they can do, for he has been a good 
friend to them, and never seen the color of their 
money. Also! behold him hashed in their ser- 
vice — a wounded foot — that is all ever he took 
out of Beaurepaire.” 

“Hold your tongue,” cried Dard, brutally; 
“ if I don’t complain, what right have you?” 
He added doggedly, but rather gently, “ the axe 
was in my hand, not in theirs — let us be just be- 
fore all things.” 

The statesman sat at breakfast, eating roasted 
kidneys with a little melted butter and parsley 
under them, and drinking a tumbler of old Me- 
doc slightly diluted — a modest repast becoming 
his age, and the state of his affections. On his 
writing-table lay waiting for him a battle array 
of stubborn figures. He looked at them over his 
tumbler. “Ah!” thought he, “ to-day I must 
1)0 all the state’s. Even you must not keep me 
from those dry calculations, oh, well-beloved 
chateau of Beau-re-pai — ah ! my telescope — it is 
— it is.” [Exit statesman. 

The white flag was waving from the battle- 
ments. 

When he got half-way to Beaurepaire, he 
found to his horror he had forgotten that wretch- 
ed clout. However, he w'ould not go back. He 
trusted to Jacintha’s intelligence. It did not 
deceive him. He found her waiting fur him. 

“ She is gone alone to Dard’s house. The 
other will be after her soon, — forward I !” . 

He flew ; he knocked with beating heart at 
Dard’s door. At another time he should have 
knocked and opened without further invitation. 

“Come in,” cried Dard’s stentorian voice, 
tie entered, and there seated on a chair, with a 
book in her hand, was — Mademoiselle Josephine 
de Beaurepaire. 

Riviere stared, — stupefied, m 3 'stified. 

The young lady rose with a smile, courtesied, 
and reseated herself. She was as self-possessed 
as he was flurried and puzzled what to say or 
do. He recovered himself a little, inquired with 
wonderful solicitude Dard’s present symptoms, 
and, suddenly remembering the other lad}' was 
expected, he said : “I leave you in good hands ; 
angel visitors are best enjoyed alone,” and re- 
tired slowly, with a deep obeisance. Once out- 
side the door, dignity vanished in alacrity ; he 
flew off into the park, and ran as hard as he 
could towards the chateau. He was within fifty 
yards of the little gate, when sure enough Laure 
emerged. They met; his heart beating vio- 
lently. 

“ Ah ! mademoiselle ! — ” 

“ Ah ! it is Monsieur Riviere, I declare,” said 
Laure coolly, all over blushes, though. 

“ Yes, mademoiselle, and I am so out of breath. 
I am sent for you. Mademoiselle Josephine 
awaits you at Dard’s house.” 

“ She sent you for me?” inquired Laure, arch- 
ing her brows. 

“Not positively, Mademoiselle Laure.” 

“ How pat he has our names too !” 

“But I could see I should please her by com- 
ing for you ; there is, I believe, a bull or so 
about.” 

“A bull or two; don’t talk in that reckless 
way, monsieur. She has done well to send you ; 
let us make haste.” 

“ But I am a little out of breath.” 


46 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Oh never mind that! I abhor bulls,” 

“But, mademoiselle, we are not come to 
them vet, and the faster we go now the sooner 
we shall.” 

“Yes; but I always like to get a disagreea- 
ble thing over as soon as possible,” said Laure, 
slyly. 

“Ah,” replied Edouard, mournfully, “in that 
case let us make haste.” 

After a little spurt, mademoiselle relaxed the 
pace of her own accord, and even went slower 
than before. There was an awkward silence. 
Edouard eyed the park boundary, and thought : 
“ Now what I have to say I must say before we 
get to you;” and, being thus impressed with 
tlie necessity of immediate action, he turned to 
lead. 

Laure eyed him from under her long lashes, 
and the ground, alternately. 

At last he began to color and flutter. She 
saw something was coming, and all the woman 
donned defensive armor. 

“ Mademoiselle.” 

“ Monsieur.” 

“Is it quite decided that your family refuse 
my acquaintance, my services, which I still — for- 
give me — press on you ? Ah ! Mademoiselle 
Laure, am I never to have the happiness of — of 
— even speaking to you ?” 

“It appears so,” said Laure, dryly. 

“Have you then decided against me, too? 
That, hajipy day it was only mademoiselle who 
crushed my hopes.” 

“ I ?” asked Laure ; “ what have I to do with 
it?” 

“Can you ask? Do you not see that it is 
not Mademoiselle Josephine, but you I — What 
am I saying ? but, alas ! you understand too 
well.” 

“No, monsieur,” said Laure, with a puzzled 
air, “ I do not understand. Not one word of all 
you are saying do I comprehend. I am sure it is 
Josephine and not me ; for I am only a child.” 

“ You a child ! an angel like you ?” 

“ Ask any of them,” said she, pouting ; “ they 
will tell you I am a child ; and it is to that I 
owe this conversation, no doubt ; if you did 
not look on me as a child, you would not dare 
take this liberty with me,” said the young cat, 
scratching without a moment’s notice. 

“ Ah, mademoiselle, do not be angry. I was 
wrong.” 

“ Oh, never mind. Children are little crea- 
tures without reserve, and treated accordingly, 
and to notice them is to honor them.” 

“Adieu then, mademoiselle. Try to believe 
no one respects you more than I do.” 

“ Yes, let us part, for there is Dard’s house ; 
and I begin to suspect that Josephine never sent 
you.” 

“I confess it.” 

“There, he confesses it. I thought so all 
along ! ! What a dupe I have been! !” 

“I will otfend no more,” said lieviere hum- 
bly. 

“We shall see.” 

“ Adieu, mademoiselle. God bless you ! May 
you find friends as sincere as I am, and more to 
your taste!” 

“Heaven hear your prayers!” replied the 
malicious thing, casting up her eyes with a mock- 
tragic air. 


Edouard sighed ; a chill conviction that she 
was both heartless and empty fell on him. He 
turned awtiy without another word. She called 
to him with a sudden airy cheerfulness that 
made him start. 

“Stay, monsieur, I forgot, — I have something 
to tell you.” 

He returned, all curiosity. 

“And a favor to ask you.” 

“ Ah ! Speak, mademoiselle !” 

“You have made a conquest.” 

“I have a difliculty in believing you, made- 
moiselle.” 

“ Oh, it is not a lady,” said little malice. 

“Ah! then it is possible,” was the bitter re- 

ply- 

“Something better, less terrestrial, you know, 
it is a savant. You jumped, you spoke, you con- 
quered Doctor St. Aubin, that day. What do 
you think he says?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“He says you are handsome” (opening her 
eyes to the full height of astonishment). “ He 
says you are graceful ; and, indeed, it was not 
a bad jump, I have been looking at it since ; 
and, oh, Monsieur Riviere, he says you are mod- 
est !!!!! ! !” 

“ Did he say all this before you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Heaven reward him!” 

“You agree with me that it w'as odd he should 
have ventured on these statements before me; 
but these savants can face any amount of contra- 
diction.” 

“You did me the honor to contradict all 
this?” 

“I did not fail.” 

“Thank you, mademoiselle.” 

“That is right, be unjust. No, monsieur; to 
detract from undeniable merit was not my real 
object ; but not being quite such a child as some 
people think, I contradicted him, in order to — 
to — confirm him in those good sentiments ; and 
I succeeded ; the proof is that the doctor desires 
your acquaintance, monsieur ; and now I come 
to the favor I have to ask you.” 

“Ah, yes, — the favor.” 

“Be so kind as to bestow your acquaintance 
on Monsieur St. Aubin,” said Laure, her man- 
ner changing from sauciness to the timidity of 
a person asking a favor. “ He tvill not discred- 
it my recommendation. Above all, he will not 
make difliculties, as we ladies do, for he is really 
worth knowing. In short, believe me, it will be 
an excellent acquaintance for you — and for him,” 
added she, with all the grace of the De Beaure- 
paires. “What say you, monsieur?” 

Riviere was mortified to the heart’s core. 
“She refuses to know mo herself,” thought he, 
“but she will use my love to make me amuse 
that old man.” His heart swelled against her 
injustice and ingratitude, and his crushed vanity 
turned to strychnine. 

“Mademoiselle, ’’said he, bitterly and dogged- 
ly, but sadly, “ were I so happy as to have your 
esteem, my heart would overflow, not only on the 
doctor, but on every honest person around. But 
if I must not have the acquaintance I value more 
than life, suffer me to be alone in the world, and 
never to say a word either to Doctor St. Aubin 
or to any human creature, if I can help it.” 

The imperious young beauty drew herself up. 


WHITE LIES. 


47 


“ Sobe it, monsieur ; you teach me how a child 
should he answered that forgets herself, and asks 
— Dieul — asks a favor of a stranger, — a perfect 
stranger,” added she, with a world of small ill- 
nature. 

Could one of the dog-days change to midwin- 
ter in a second, it would hardly seem so cold and 
cross as Laure de Beaurepaire turned from the 
smiling, saucy fairy of the moment before. 

Edouard felt a portcullis of ice come down be- 
tween her and him. 

She courtesied and glided away. He bowed 
and stood frozen to the spot. 

He felt so lonely and so bitter, he must go to 
Jacintha for something to lean on and scold. 

He put his handkerchief up in the tree, and out 
came Jacintha, curious. 

“You left the clout at home, I bet — what a 
head ! — well, well, tell us.” 

“ A fine blunder you made, Jacintha. It was 
Mademoiselle Josephine at Dard’s.” 

“ Do you call that a blunder, — ingrate ?” 

“ Yes ! Why, it is not Josephine I love ?” 

“ Yes it is,” rejdied Jacintha. 

“No! no!” 

“ Change of wind then since yesterday !” 

“ No ! no ! How can you be so stupid, — fan- 
cy not seeing it is Mademoiselle Laure.” 

“ Laure ! that child ?” 

“She is not a child : she is quite the reverse. 
Don’t call her a child, — she objects to it, — it puts 
her in a passion.” 

“You liave deceived me,” said Jacintha, se- 
verely. 

“ Never !” 

“You have. You never breathed Laure’s 
name to me.” 

“ No more I did Josephine’s.” 

“ Didn’t you ? Arc you sure ? Well, if you 
did not, what has that to do with it? You pre- 
tended to be in love with my young lady.” 

“No! with one of them, I said.” 

“ Well ! and how was I to guess by that it was 
Laure ?” 

“And how were you to guess it was Joseph- 
ine ?” 

“There was no guessing in the case ; if it was 
not Josephine, any body with sense would have 
told a body it was Laure ; but you are mad. Be- 
sides, who would look at Laure when Josephine 
was by ? Mademoiselle Laure is very well ; she 
has a ])retty little face enough, but she is not a 
patch upon mademoiselle.” 

“Why, Jacintha, you are blind. But this is 
the way; you women are no judges of female 
beauty. They are both lovely, but Laure is the 
brightest, the gayest — oh, her smile ! It seems 
brighter than ever now ; for I have seen her frown, 
Jacintha ; think of that and pity me. I have 
seen her frown.” 

“And if you look this way you may sec me 
frown.” 

“ Why, what is the matter with you ?” 

“The matter is, that I wash my hands of the 
whole affair, it is infamous.” 

Jacintha then let him know, in her own lan- 
guage, that such frightful irregularities as this 
could not pass in an ancient family, where prec- 
edent and decorum reigned, and had for centu- 
ries. “The elder daughter must be got off our 
hands first ; then let the younger take her turn.” 
To gild the pill of decorum, she returned to her 


original argument. “Be more reasonable, my 
son, above all, less blind. She is nice, she is 
frisky ; but she is not like Josephine, the belle 
of belles.” 

Edouard, in reply, anxious to conciliate his 
only friend, affected to concede the palm of beau- 
ty to the elder sister, but he suggested that Laure 
was quite beautiful enough for ordinary purposes, 
— such as to be fallen in love with, — nearer his 
own age, too, than Josephine. He was proceed- 
ing adroitly to suggest that he stood hardly high 
enough in France to pretend to the heiress of 
Beaurepaire, and must not look above the young- 
er branch of that ancient tree, when Jacintha, 
who had not listened to a word he was saying, 
but had got over her surprise, and was now' con- 
verted to his side by her own reflections, inter- 
rupted him. 

“And therefore, yes,” said this vacillating 
personage, carrying out an internal chain of rea- 
sons. “Next, I could not promise you Jose- 
phine, but Laure you shall have if you can be con- 
tent wdth her.” 

The boy threw his arms round her neck. 

“Quite content with Laure,” said he, — “quite 
content, you dear Jacintha.” Then his counte- 
nance fell. 

“ I forgot,” said he ; “ in the heat of discussion 
one forgets so.” 

“ Forgot w'hat ?” cried Jacintha, in some 
alarm. 

“I have just lost her forever.” 

Jacintha put her hands on her hips, knuckles 
downwards. 

“ Now then,” said she, with something between 
a groan and a grin, “ what have you been at ?” 

• He related his interview, all but the last pas- 
sage. 

Jacintha congratulated him. 

“Why, it goes swimmingly. You are very 
lucky. I w'onder she spoke to you at all out there 
all alone. In Dard’s cottage I knew she would, 
because sbe could not help. Well.” 

Then he told her Laure’s parting request. 

“I say, mademoiselle,” cried Jacintha, “you 
arc coming on pretty w’ell for a novice. There 
is one that has a head. You thanked and blessed 
her, etc.” 

“No, indeed, I did not. I declined — oh! 
very respectfully.” 

“Very respectfully !” repeated Jacintha, with 
disdain. “You really are not safe to go alone. 
Nevertheless, I can’t be always at his elbow. 
Do you know wdiat vou have done ?” 

“No.” 

“You have made her hate you, that is all.” 

Iliviere defended himself. 

“It was so unjust to refuse me her acquaint- 
ance, and then ask me to amuse that ancient 
personage.” 

Jaeintha looked him in the face, sneering like 
a fiend. 

“Listen to a parable. Monsieur the Blind,” 
said she. “Once there was a little boy madly 
in love with raspberry jam.” 

“ A thing I hate.” 

“ It is false, monsieur ; one does not hate 
raspberry jam. He came to the store closet, 
where he knew there w'ere a score jars of it, and 
— oh ! misery — the door was locked. He kicked 
the door, and w^ept bitterly.” 

“Boor child, his grief affects me.” 


48 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Naturally, monsieur, — a fellow-feeling. Ilis 
mamma came and said, ‘ Here is the key,’ and 
gave him the key. And what did he do ? Why, 
he fell to crying and roaring, and kicking the 
door. ‘ I don’t wa-wa-wa-wa-nt the key-ey-ey. 
I wa-a-ant the jam, — oh ! oh I oh ! oh !’ ” and 
Jacintha mimicked to the life the mingled grief 
and ire of infancy debarred its jam. 

Edouard wore a puzzled air, but it was only for 
a moment ; the next he hid his face in his hands, 
and cried : 

“Fool! Fool! Fool!” 

“I shall not contradict you,” said his mentor, 
with affected politeness. 

“ She was my best friend.” 

“ Who doubts it ? ” 

“ Once acquainted with the doctor, I could 
visit at Beaurepaire.” 

“ Parhleu ! ” 

“ She had thought of a way to reconcile my 
wishes with this terrible etiquette that reigns 
here.” 

“ She thinks to more purpose than you do, — 
that much is clear.” 

“ Nothing is left now but to ask her pardon, — 
and to consent, — I am off.” 

“ No, you are not,” and Jacintha laid a grasp 
of iron on him. “ Will you be quiet ? — is not one 
blunder a day enough ? If you go near her now, 
she will affront you, and order the doctor not to 
speak to you.” 

“0 Jacintha! your sex then arc fiends of 
malice !” 

“ While it lasts. Luckily with us nothing 
does last very long. Take your orders from 
me.” 

“Yes, general,” said the young man, touclf- 
ing his liat. 

“Don’t go near her till you have made the 
doctor’s acquaintance ; that is easily done. He 
walks two hours on the east road every day, with 
his feet in the puddles and his head in the 
clouds.” 

“ But how am I to get him out of the clouds ?” 

“ With the first black beetle you meet.” 

“ A black beetle !” 

“ Ay ! catch her when you can. Have her 
ready for use in your handkerchief : pull a long 
face : and says you, ‘ Excuse me, monsieur, I 
have the misfortune not to know the Greek name 
^ of this merchandise here.’ Say that, and behold 
him launched. He will christen the beast in He- 
brew and Latin as well as Greek, and tell you 
her history down from the flood : next he will 
beg her of you, aud out will come a cork and a 
pin, and behold the creature impaled. Thus it 
is that man loves beetles. He has a thousand 
jjinned down at home, — beetles, butterflies, and 
so forth. When I go near the lot with my dus- 
ter he trembles like an aspen. I pretend to be 
going to clean them, but it is to see the fiice he 
makes, for even a domestic requires to laugh : 
but I never do clean them, for after all he is 
more stupid than wicked, poor man ! I have not 
therefore the sad courage to annihilate him.” 

“ Let us return to our beetle, — what will his 
tirades about the antiquity of the beetle advance 
me ?” 

“ Wretch ! one begins about a beetle, but one 
ends Heaven knows where.” She turned sud- 
denly grave. “All this does not prevent my pot 
from being on the fire and, her heart of 


hearts being now in the kitchen. Riviere saw it 
was useless to detain her body, so thanking her 
warmly made at once for the east road. 

Sure enough he fell in with the doctor, but not 
being armed with an insect he had to take refuge 
in a vegetable, — the fallen elm. He told St. 
Aubin he had employed a person to keep his ears 
open, and, if any thing transpired at either of 
the taverns, let him know. 

“You have done well, monsieur,” said the 
doctor; “when the wine goes in, tlie secrets ooze 
out.” 

The next time they met Riviere was furnished 
with an enormous chrysalis. He had found it 
in a hedge, and was struck with its singular size. 
He produced it and with modest diflSdence and 
twinkling eye sought information. 

The doctor’s eye glittered. 

“ The death’s-head moth !” he cried with en- 
thusiasm, — “ the death’s-head moth ! a great rar- 
ity in this district. Where found you this ? ” 

Riviere undertook to show him the place. 

It was half a league distant. Coming and 
going he had time to make friends with St. Au- 
bin, and this w'as the easier that the old gentle- 
man, who was a physiognomist as well as ologist, 
had seen goodness and sensibility in Edouard’s 
face. 

At the end of the walk he begged the doctor 
to accept the chrysalis. The doctor coquet- 
ted. 

“ That would be a robbery. You take an in- 
terest in these things yourself, — at least I hope 
so!” 

The young rogue confessed modestly to the 
sentiment of entomology, but “ the government 
worked him so hai-d as to leave him no hopes of 
shining in so high a science,” said he, sorrowful- 
ly- 

The doctor pitied him. “A young man of 
your attainments and tastes to be debarred from 
the everlasting secrets of Nature, by the fleeting 
politics of the day, in which it happens so seldom 
that any great principle is evolved.” 

Riviere shrugged his shoulders. “ Somebody 
must do the dirty work,” said he, chuckling in- 
wardly. 

Brief: the chrysalis went to Beaurepaire in 
the pocket of a grateful man. 

“O wise Jacintha!” said the lover, “I 
thought you were humbugging me, but his heart 
is in these things. We are a league nearer one 
another than yesterday.” 

The doctor related his conversation with young 
Riviere, on whom he pronounced high encomi- 
ums, levelling them at Laure the detractor from 
his merit, as if he was planting so many death- 
blows. Her saucy eyes sparkled with fun : you 
might have lighted a candle at one and explod- 
ed a mine at the other ; but not a syllable did she 
utl cr. 

The white flag waved from the battlements of 
Beaurepaire. 

So (there’s a sentence for you, — there’s a 
I'ing, — there’s earthly thunder !) the statesman 
dropped his statistics, and took up his hat and 
fled. 

“Only to tell you you are in high favor, and I 
think you might risk a call,” said Jacintha. 

“What, on the baroness?” 

“ Why not ? We shall be obliged to let hei 
have a finger in the pie, soon or late.” 


WHITE LIES. 


“But I called on her, and was repulsed with 
scorn,” 

“ Ila ! ha ! I remember you came to offer us 
your highness's patronage ! Well, now I will 
tell you a better game- to play at Beaurepaire 
than that. Think of some favor to ask us : come 
with your hat off. We like to grant favors : we 
are used to that. We don’t know how to receive 
them.” 

“ But what favor can I ask ?” 

“ Oh! any thing; so that you can make it 
sound a favor.” 

“I have it ; I will ask leave to shoot over Beau- 
repaire.” 

“ Good : and that will be an excuse for giving 
me some more birds,” said she, who had always 
an eye to the pot. “Come, — forward.” 

“ What, now ? this very moment ? — I was not 
prepared for this. My heart beats at the idea.” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee ! The baroness and the doc- 
tor are on the south terrace. But I am not to 
know that. I shall show you up to the baron- 
ess, and she won’t be there, — you understand. 
Run to the front door ; I’ll step round and let 
you in.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

“Madame the baroness, here is a — young mon- 
sieur with a request — come in, monsieur. But, 
madamemoiselle, where is madame the baron- 
ess.” 

“ My mother is on the terrace, Jacintha,” said 
Josephine. 

“I will seek her ; be seated, monsieur.” 

Edouard began to stammer apologies. 

“ Such a trifle to trouble the baroness with, — 
and you, mesdemoiselles.” 

“You do not trouble us, monsieur,” said 
Laure ; “you see we go on working as if noth- 
ing had happened.” 

“That is flattering, Mademoiselle Laure.” 

“But we flutter,” murmured Josephine, too 
low for Riviere to hear ; then, when the kindly 
beauty had softened down her sister’s piquancy, 
she said aloud : 

“ Well, monsieur, I think I can answer for our 
mother that she will not refuse one whom we 
must always look on as — our friend.” 

“But not your acquaintance,” said Edouard, 
tenderly, though reproachfully. 

“ Monsieur then can not forgive us a repulse 
that cost us as much as it could him.” 

Here was an unexpected turn. Josephine’s 
soft eyes and deprecatory voice seemed to imply 
that she might be won to retract a repulse for 
which she went so near apologizing. 

“Jacintha is right,” thought he, “she is the 
belle of belles.” 

“Ah! mademoiselle, ’’said he, warmly, “how 
good you are to speak so to me !” 

The door opened, and the baroness came in 
alone. 

Edouard rose and bowed. The baroness cour- 
tesied, gravely waved him to a seat, and sat down 
herself. 

“ They tell me, monsieur, I have it in my pow- 
er to be of some slight service to you, — all the 
better.” 

“ Yes, madame ; but it is a trifle, and I am in 
4 


49 

I consternation to think I should have deranged 
you.” 

“Nowise, monsieur; I was about to come in 
wlien Jacintha informed me of the honor you had 
done me. Then monsieur wishes — ” 

“ Madame, I am a sportsman. I am a neigh- 
bor of yours, madame, though I have not the hon- 
or to be known to you.” 

“That arises doubtless from this, monsieur, 
that I so seldom go into the world, ’’said the lady, 
with polished insincerity. 

“ Well, madame, I am a sportsman, and shoot 
in your neighborhood, and the birds flyover into 
your ground. Now, madame, if I might follow 
them, I should often have a good day’s sport.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the old lady, with a faint 
smile, “ follow those birds wherever I have a 
right to invite you. I must at the same time in- 
form you that since France was reformed, or as 
some think, deformed, it has not been the cus- 
tom to give the lady of Beaurepaire any voice in 
matters of this kind.” 

“Madame,” said Edouard, “permit me to 
separate myself in your judgment from those per- 
sons.” 

“Monsieur has done that already,” said the 
baroness, with all the grace of the old regime. 

Riviere bowed low. His head being down, he 
cast a furtive glance, and there was Josephine 
working with that conscious complacency young 
ladies mildly beam with when they are working 
and interested in a conversation. Laure, too.^ 
was working, but her head was turned away, an 
she was bursting with suppressed merriment, 
lie felt uneasy, — “ It is me she is quizzing,” — 
and yet he had a nervous desire to laugh with 
her ; so he turned away hastily. 

“Monsieur,” said the baroness languidly, 
“may I, without indiscretion, ask, does it afford 
you much pleasure to kill these birds?” 

“Not too much, madame, to tell the truth, — 
but pursuit of any thing is veiy inviting to our 
nature.” 

“ Ah !” said Laure, dryly, off her guard. 

“ Did you speak, my daughter ?” said the bar- 
oness, coldly. 

“No, my mother,” said Laure, a little fright- 
ened ; with all her sauce she dare no more put in 
her word, uninvited, between her mother and a 
stranger, than she dare jump out of the window. 

“Besides,” continued Riviere, “ when a man 
is very hard worked, these relaxations” 

“Ah! monsieur is hard worked !” said the bar- 
oness ; her eye dwelling with a delicate irony on 
his rosy face. 

He did not perceive it ; it was too subtle. He 
answered with a shade of pomp : 

“Like all who serve the state.” 

“Ah! monsieur — serves — the — state.” She 
seemed to congeal word by word. The young 
ladies exchanged looks of dismay. 

“I serve France,” said Riviere, gently; and 
something in his manner and in his youth half 
disarmed the old lady ; but not quite ; she said, 
as she rose to conclude the interview : 

“ Well, monsieur (ah ! you will forgive me if 
I can not prevail on myself to call you citizen”) 
— this with ironical courtesy. 

“ Call me what you please, madame, except 
your enemy.” 

And he said this with so much feeling, and 
this submission of the conquering to the con- 


.‘>0 


WHITE LIES. 


qucM-cd party was so graceful, tliat the water 
came into Josephine's eyes, and Laure’s bosom 
rose and fell, and her needle went slower and 
slower. 

“Citizens have done me too much ill,” ex- 
plained the baroness, with a sombre look. 

“ Mamma,” said Josephine, imploringly. 

“ They could not have known you, madame,” 
said Edouard, “ as I, even in this short interview 
— forgive my presumption — seem to do;” and 
he looked beseechingly at her. 

“At least, monsieur,” cried the old lady, 
kindly, and almost gayly, “it is a good begin- 
ning, I think.” She courtesied, and that meant 
“ go.” He bowed to her and the young ladies, 
and retired demurely : one twinkle of triumph 
shot out of his eye towards Laure. 

The baroness turned to her daughters. 

“ Have you any idea who is this little Repub- 
lican who has invented the idea of asking permis- 
sion to shoot the partridges of another, and who, 
be it said, in passing, has the face of an angel ?” 

They looked at one another. Laure spoke : — 

“ Yes, mamma, we have an idea — well, he is, 
you know — tbe purse.” 

Th* baroness flushed. 

“Ah! And why did you not tell me, chil- 
dren ?” 

“ Oh, mamma, it would have been so awkward 
for you, we thought.” 

“You are very considerate.” 

“ And we must have whispered it, and that is 
so ill-bred.” 

“More so than to giggle when I receive a vis- 
itor ?” asked the baroness, keenly. 

“ No, mamma,” said Laure, humbly, and the 
next moment she colored all of a sudden, and 
the next moment after she looked at her mother, 
and her eyes began to fill. 

“ Let us compound, mademoiselle,” said the 
baroness. “ Instead of crying, because your old 
mother speaks more sharply than she means, 
which would be absurd at your age, you shall 
tell me why you laughed.” 

“Agreed, mamma,”cried Mademoiselle April, 
vulgarly called Laure ; “ then because — he ! he ! 
— he has been shooting over your ground for two 
months past without leave.” 

“Oh! impossible.” 

“ I have heard the guns, and seen him and 
Dard doing it. And now he has come to ask for 
leave with the face of an angel, as you remarked 
— he ! he! — and oh ! mamma, you compliment- 
ed him — he ! — and he absorbed the praise with 
such an ingenuous gravity, — ha! ha! ha! Af- 
ter all it is but reversing the period at which 
such applications are made by ordinary sports- 
men, — after instead of before. What does that 
matter ? — time flies so, — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha !” 

“Humph!” said tjie baroness, and seemed 
very thoughtful, and mighty little amused. 

Edouard went home exulting : he had insert- 
ed the wedge. 

He little thought that Mademoiselle April had 
sacrificed him to a laugh, still less that a coun- 
cil of war had been convened and was even now 
sitting on him. Had he known this, the deluded 
youth that went along exulting would have gone 
trembling, and there he would have been mis- 
taken again. Yet there are two hundred thou- 
sand people that believe a gypsy girl can predict 
the future. 


She can not, — the wisest of us can nnt, — an- 
gels can not, — Satan can not, though fifty thou- 
sand of my Yankee friends have assumed as a 
self-evident proposition that he can. 

The baroness sent for St. Aubin to ask his ad- 
vice as to the best way of keeping the citizens at 
a distance. 

The doctor listened with great interest, and 
often smiled as the baroness put her portions of 
the puzzle to his portions of it, and the whole 
enigma lay revealed. 

“Aha!” said he at last, “the young rogue 
has taken me by my foible : but I will be re- 
venged.” 

“The question is not your revenge, but what 
/am to do.” 

“Ah !” said the doctor, “ you require my ad- 
vice what you should do ?” 

“ Certainly I do.” 

“ Humph !” said the doctor, and reflected pro- 
foundly ; “ then my advice is, — let them alone.” 

“ Let them alone,” replied the baroness sharp- 
ly, — “ that is easily said.” 

“ It is as easily done,” replied he quietly. 

The baroness stared, and a faint flush rose in 
her delicate cheek, at her friend’s cool way of 
disposing of a question that embarrassed her. 

“Trust to Nature!” said the doctor, be- 
nign an tly. 

“Trust to Nature !” screamed the old aristo- 
crat, with horror and dismay in her face, — “is 
the man mad?” 

“No, madame; nor is Nature ; trust to her. 
She will bring the young lady and the young citi- 
zen together quite quickly enough without our 
inflaming them by opposition.” 

“ You make me regret, sir, that I disturbed 
your graver studies for a matter so little serious 
as this,” was the bitter answer veiled in tones of 
perfect politeness. 

“ My friend, if you wished for the sort of ad- 
vice that political prejudice or dther blinding in- 
fluence gives, I was indeed the wrong person to 
send for.” 

“ But,” continued the lad}', haughtily, not 
deigning to notice his last sentence, “ you will 
make my apology to the spiders, to wliom and 
their works you are, I conclude, about to return.” 

The doetor rose at this piece of polite inso- 
lence. 

“ Since you permit me, madame. I shall find 
Nature in spiders, and admire her ; but not more 
than I do in the young lady and the young citi- 
zen who are now submitting to her sweetest 
law.” 

“ Enough ! monsieur, — enough !” 

“ As I myself in former times, when youth — ” 

“ As that must be very long ago, and as among 
the results marriage has not been one, perhaps ‘ 
it would be as well to spare me the recital,” said 
the baroness, too spiteful to let slip this chance 
of a slap, fair or unfair. 

“ True, madame. Well, then, let us take an 
unimpeachable example, — as yourself, —who 
have been married,— in your younger days, — not 
deeming the birds in spring unworthy imitation 
— deigned — ” 

“ Monsieur, our conference is ended.” 

The doctor went off with a malicious grin ; 
much he cared for his old friend’s grand airs and 
biting tongue. The only creature he stood in 
awe of Avas Jacintha. 


WHITE LIES. 


51 


“ Oh, that duster !” 

“What is the hardest substance on earth ?” 

“ Adamant, stupid.” 

“No.” 

“ Well, then, steel?” 

“No.” 

“ Platinum ?” 

“No. Do you give it up? — do you? — do 
you ? — do you ? — ice.” 

“Ice?” 

“ Moral ice, notphysical, — notsolidified water, 
but solidified etiquette, — congealed essence of 
grandmamma, — custom, ceremony, propriety 
when down at 32 Fahrenheit. 

“ How many have jumped as high as they 
could, and come down as hard as they could, on 
purpose to break this ice, — and been broken? 
You can try it, mesdames, but not by my ad- 
vice. 

“By a just balance of qualities, this ice once 
broken, is the hardest thing in the world to 
mend. 

“ Human ice, once liquefied, can not be con- 
gealed back to its original smoothness, strength, 
and slipperiness. 

“ Nature glides in and unrecognized, unthank- 
ed, keeps the thawed from freezing again, the 
frozen from petrifying.” 

When the ladies of Beaurepaire darted from 
their family oak, and caught Kiviere in his feloni- 
ous act, they broke the ice. 

Josephine’s attempt to repair it on the spot 
was laudable but useless. 

It was not in nature that this young man and 
these two young women could ever be again the 
strangers they were before. 

Whenever they met in the park, he had always 
a word ready, and they answered. It was but a 
sly word or two; but these words were like little 
sticks judiciously inserted as a fire burns up. 

Factotum Dard co-operated. 

So powerful was Factotum’s destiny, that even 
when he was laid up in his arm-chair another 1ft- 
tle odd job fell upon him ; he became a go-be- 
tween, though unable to stir. 

Lovers met — to nurse him. 

First would come the two ladies, or sometimes 
only Laure, and curious enough in less than ten 
minutes Edouard was sure to arrive, very hot ; 
it happened so, — how, I have no idea ; indeed it 
would be idle to attempt to account for all the 
strange coincidences that occur. Let me rather 
mention here, apologizing for its complete irrele- 
vance, that the young man had been much puz- 
zled what to do with the twenty pieces of gold. 

“ They arc sacred,” said he. 

But eventually he laid them out, and ten more, 
in a new telescope with an immensely powerful 
lens. 

Science, by its mouthpiece St. Aubin, highly 
approved the purchase, and argued great things 
for a young man who turned his lodgings into 
an observatory. 

“ Also a politician who looks heavenwards is 
not of every-day occurrence,” said the dry doc- 
tor. 

One day that both young ladies and Riviere 
met round black-foot* Dard, that worthy, who 


* A Scotclj word for a go-between : excuse the heartless 
pun. 


had hitherto signalized himself by the depth of 
his silent reflections, and by listening intently to 
good books as read by Josephine, and by swearing 
at his toe, rather than by any j)rolonged conver- 
sational efforts, suddenly announced his desire to 
put a few queries. 

The auditory prepared to sustain the shock of 
them. 

“ It is about the lives of the suffering saints I 
have been reading to console him,” thought Jo- 
sephine. 

“What I want to know is, how it happens that 
you aristocrats come to see me so often?” 

“Oh, Dard,” said Josephine, “don’t you 
know ?” 

“No! I don’t.” 

“ Don’t you see it is the least we can do : only 
think of the number of little odd jobs you have 
done for us.” 

“ Oh, as to that, yes, I have, by St. Denis I 
have.” 

“I have m3’self seen you work in the garden, 
drive the cow, chop wood, alas ! poor lad, once 
too often, and take fish for us out of the pond, 
and — ” 

“ Stop, mademoiselle, it is no use your trying 
to count them. Heaven has given no man fingers 
enough to count my little odd jobs, much less a 
woman,” added he, getting conf^used between the 
jobs and the fingers. 

“ Well, then, you see jmu agree with us. You 
have every claim on our gratitude.” 

“Oh, then, it is the jobs I did up at Beaure- 
paire that gains me these visits.” 

“Yes! but above all the good heart that 
prompted them.” 

Dard was silent a moment : then suddenly 
bursting out into an off-hand, reckless, jaunty 
tone: “Oh! as to that,” said he, “I am not 
one of your fellows that are afraid of work. A 
few little jobs more or less make no difference 
to me. ‘ Too much of one thing is good for 
nothing,’ as the saying goes, — and ‘changes are 
lightsome.’” His next observation betrayed 
more candor than tact. “ It was to please Ja- 
cintha I did them, not out of regard for you, 
though.” 

“What have we to do with that?” said 
Laure, sharply: “we benefited by them: and 
now you shall benefit by them. Ah, Dard ! if we 
were* but a little richer, we would make you so 
comfortable.” 

“ I wish you were the richest citizens in 
France,” said he, bluntly. 

Edouard walked to the gate of the Pleasance 
with the ladies, and talked nineteen to the doz- 
en, to leave no room for them to say Adieu and 
so get rid of him. They did not hate him for 
not giving them that chance. 

He gave the ice no time to freeze again. 

And all this time he was making friends with 
Doctor St. Aubin ; and as things will turn in this 
world, or rather twist, the way least expected, 
he got to like the doctor and greatly to admire 
him. He tvas a mine of knowledge, and his 
tastes were almost as wide as his information. 
He relished Nature more perhaps than any thing 
else ; but he was equally ready w'ith poetry, with 
history, and, what charmed young Edouard, with 
politics of the highest order. 

In their graver converse he made the young 
man see how great and rare a thing is a states- 


52 


WHITE LIES. 


man, how common and small a thing is a place- 
man. He poured examples drawn from many 
nations and many epochs, and sounded trumpet 
notes of great state policy, and the patriotism it 
is founded on ; and on these occasions he would 
rise into real eloquence, and fire the young heart 
of Citizen Eiviere. 

In short they became friends, and Riviere no 
sooner felt they were friends than his conscience 
smote him, and he said to himself : “ I will tell 
him all: he is a good man, — a wise man, — a just 
man. I’m not ashamed of my love. I will en- 
treat him to be on my side.” , 

“My friend,” he began, “I have a confession 
to make.” 

He looked at his friend ; the doctor twinkled 
from head to foot. 

‘ ‘ Perhaps it will not take you altogether by 
surprise.” 

“ We shall see.” 

Then Edouard told his story as people tell 
their own stories. How he had come to this 
district a stanch Republican. How he had seen 
two young ladies walking so calm, gentle, and 
sad, always in black. How their beauty and 
grace had made them interesting, but their mis- 
fortunes had made them sacred. How after 
many meetings a new feature had arisen in their 
intercourse ; Mademoiselle Laure had smiled 
on him, as earth, he thought, had never smiled 
before. (The doctor grinned here, as many an 
old fellow has grinned on like occasion, mindful 
of the days when he was a young fool and did 
not know it; and now he is an old one, and 
doesn’t know it.) This had gone through his 
heart. Then, suppressing Jacintha, he told his 
friend he had learned from a sure source the 
family was in bitter poverty. The doctor sigh- 
ed. The ardent desire to save them, coupled 
with the difficulty, and their inaccessibility, had 
almost driven him mad. 

“ I lost all my color,” cried he, half angrily. 
Then he told the story of the purse, and how 
happy he had felt when he dropped it and stole 
away, and happier when he heard it had been 
found, and how, after all, that attempt to save 
them had failed ; “and now, monsieur,” he said, 
“ my heart often aches, and I burn and freeze by 
turns. I watch hours and hours for the chance 
of a word or a look. If I fail, I am miserable 
all that day ; if I succeed, I am the happiest man 
in France for half an hour. Then I go back to 
my little room. It looks like a prison after that. 
The sun seems to have left the earth, and taken 
hope with him. Oh, my friend, much as I love 
her, there are moments I wish I had never seen her. 
She I love will be my ruin. But I shall love her 
all the same ; it is not her fault. I am in a fever 
night and day. My duties, once so pleasant, are 
tasteless now. Ah ! monsieur, pity me and advise 
me !” 

“ I will ; tell me first, are you conscious of a 
slight tremor on the skin when you wake in the 
morning?” 

“ No.” 

“ Occasional twitches, mostly in the region of 
the thigh ?” 

“ No ! — yes !— how could you know that ? but 
such trifles are not worth our attention.” 

“ Diagnostics are not worth our attention !” 

“ No, no ! it’s my heart ! — it’s my heart !” 

“My young friend,” said the doctor, “you 


have done well to come to me. You must 
do one of two things: the choice I leave to 
you.” 

“Thank you, my friend !” 

“You must either leave this district to-mor- 
row — ” 

“ I would rather leave the earth !” 

“ Or—” 

“Ah! or — ” 

“ You must go with me to the baroness, and, 
backed by me, ask leave to court her daughter 
openly like a man.” 

“ Backed by you ! am I so fortunate ? are you 
on my side ?” 

“ Firm as a rock !” shouted the doctor ; “and 
what is more, I have been your secret ally, a 
traitor in the camp Beaurepaire, this three 
weeks; also I have watched your little ma- 
noeuvres with me. Citizen Cherubin, with no less 
interest and curiosity than I watch a young bird 
building its first nest, or a silkworm spinning her 
silk, or a spider her web, or any other cunning 
inspired by great Nature. Oh, you need not 
hide your head, fox with the face of the Madon- 
na : I awaited this revelation from you : I knew 
it would come. I am glad it is come so soon ; 
a want of candor is unmanly, and a great fault 
in youth ; you shall now learn how wise it is to 
be candid. Now tell me, Edouard — ” 

“ Ah ! thank you, monsieur !” 

“Your parents! — would they consent to a 
match between you and a young lady of rank, 
but no wealth ?” 

“Monsieur, I am not so fortunate as to have 
any parents, — unless you will let me look on you 
as one.” 

“This, dear child ! — I consent, — my snuff-box, 
— good ! left it at home.” 

“ I have an uncle ; but you know one is not 
bound to obey an uncle, exeept perhaps — ” 

“ When his wishes are the echo of our owr, 
— then we are.” 

“Besides, ray uncle loves me, — at least, I 
think so.” 

“ Oh ! impossible. You must be mistaken.” 

“Monsieur is to good. I do not please all as 
I have, by good-fortune, pleased you, my friend. 
But, in fact, my uncle has no aversion towards 
the aristocracy.” 

“ All the better. Well, my young lover, I am 
satisfied. All the battle, then, will be at Beau- 
repaire. Have you courage ?” 

“I am full of it; only sometimes it is the 
courage of hope, sometimes of despair.” 

“ Call on me to-morrow with the courage of 
hope.” 

“ What, at the chateau !” cried the young 
man, all in a flutter. 

“Ay, at the impregnable castle itself, where, 
preposterous as it may appear, the right of re- 
ceiving my visitors is conceded me. Were it not, 
I should take it.” 

I “It does me good to hear a man talk so bold- 
ly about the chateau.” 

“ I shall present you to my friend the baron- 
ess.” 

“ Oh heavens !” 

“ She will receive you as a glacier the Polar 
Star.” 

“ I feel she will. I shiver in advance.” 

“ And, deaf to me, your advocate, in other 
words, torcasonand good sense personified, ahem ! 


WHITE LIES. 


53 


she ^vill yield to you. My vanity will be shocked, ! 
and behold us enemies for life.” 

lliviere shook his head despondingly. “ Deaf 
to you, yield to me, — how can this be?” 

“Because she is the female of our species, — 
a thing to be persuaded, not convinced ; trust to 
me, — have faith in Nature,’ — and come at twelve 
o’clock.” 

St. Aubin, on reaching the chateau, found the 
dun pony standing at the door. He hurried into 
the dining-room, mid there ivere the notary and 
the young ladies, all apparently in good spirits. 
The notary had succeeded. He showed the doc- 
tor, as he had already shown the ladies, a penal 
contract by which Bonard bound himself not to 
sell the estate, or assign the loan, to any one. 

The doctor was enchanted, shook the notary 
again and again by the hand, and took him up- 
stairs to the baroness. 

“There is no further necessity for conceal- 
ment,” said he, “ and it w’ould be most unjust not 
to give her an opportunity of thanking you.” 

The baroness looked rather cold and formal at 
sight of the notary, but her manner soon changed. 
Although the doctor underrated the danger the 
chateau had just escaped, yet at the bare mention 
she turned as pale as death ; both her daughters 
and the doctor observed this. 

“Strange,” said she, “ Iliad a presenti- 
ment.” 

When she found the danger was past, a deep 
sigh showed how the mere relktion had taken 
away her breath. ' 

“Heaven reward you, monsieur,” cried she; 

“ the last time you were here, you gave me ad- 
vice which G^^fended me, probably because it was 
wise advice. Accept my excuses.” 

“They are unnecessary, madame. I could 
not but respect your prejudices, though I suffered 
by them.” 

“ In future, monsieur, count on more candor, 
and perhaps more humility ; that is, should my 
impetuosity not deter you from ever wasting good 
_^advice on me again.” 

“ On the contrary, madame, if you could give 
me an hour to-morrow, I should be glad to show 
you a means by which the estate and chateau can 
be placed above all risk, not only from a single 
creditor, but from the whole body, were they to 
act hostilely and in concert.” 

“Hear! hear!” cried the doctor. 

“I shall be at your disposal.” 

“At this interview, I request that the heiress 
of Beaurepaire may be also present.” 

“What necessity for that ?” inquired the bar- 
oness sharply. 

“Oh,” said the doctor, “I understand; the 
next heir’s formal consent is required to arrange- 
ments made for the benefit of the life-holder. 
Am I mad ? to talk of the next heir. Why, Jo- 
sephine is the present proprietor.” 

“ I !” cried Josephine wdth astonishment, not 
unmixed with horror. 

The notary’s lip curled with contempt at the 
little party that had not even asked themselves 
to whom the property belonged. 

“Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire will be pres- 
ent,” said the baroness. 

A little before twelve o’clock, Edouard Riviere 
stood at the door, with something like an iced i 


javelin running the length of his backbone. 
The baroness was in his eyes the most awful hu- 
man creature going. He w'ould have feared an 
interview with the First Consul one shade less, 
or half a shade. 

Jacintha smiling and winking, showed him 
into St. Aubin’s study. The doctor received him 
warmly, and, after a few words of kind encour- 
agement, committed him to the beetles, while he 
W'ent to intercede with the baroness. 

The baroness stopped him cunningly at the 
first word. 

“Ah ! my good doctor, spare me this topic for 
once. The most disagreeable draught ceases to 
be poignant when admiuinistered every day for 
three weeks.” 

“ If you and I only were concerned in it, I 
would prescribe it no longer, but those we love 
are deeply interested in it.” 

“Josephine, my daughter,” cried the baron- 
ess, “ are you deeply interested in marrying Citi- 
zen Riviere, — with a face like a girl ?” 

“No ! mamma!” 

“We must not ask Laure, I think, — she is 
rather too young for such topics.” 

“ Not a bit too young, mamma, if you please ; 
but I lack the inclination.” 

“ In short, somehow or another, you can both 
dispense with the doctor’s friend for a husband. 
Let him go then. Now, if the doctor had pro- 
posed himself, we should all three be pulling caps 
for him.” 

A little peal of laughter, like as of silver bells, 
rang out at the doctor’s expense. 

He never moved a muscle. 

“ Permit me to recall to you the general sub- 
stance of the reasons I have urged for admitting 
the visits of my friend Monsieur Edouard Riviere 
at this house.” 

“ A sort of precis^ or recapitulation,” remark- 
ed the baroness, dryly. 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Such as precedes the final dismissal of an ex- 
hausted subject.” 

“ Or makes the intelligent hearer at last com- 
prehend it and retain it. 

“ First, and above all, this young man is good 
and virtuous ; then he loves with delicacy, — 
with rare delicacy ; am I right, mesdemoiselles ? 
Well — I await your answer — Cowards ! ! — and 
with ardor. He burns to do good to you all. 
Now, let us soberly inquire, is the family in a 
position to scorn such a godsend ? Some fine 
day, when the chateau is sold over our heads, 
shall we not feel too late that imprudence is 
guilt in those who have the charge of beloved 
ones as well as of themselves. Look facts in the 
face, madame ; comprehend to-day what all the 
rest of France has long comprehended, that the 
Bourbons are snuffed out. They were little 
men, whom accident placed high, and accident 
could lay low. This Bonaparte’s finger is thick- 
er than their loins. AVell, if you can really 
doubt this, lean on your rotten reeds ; but not 
with all your weight; marry one daughter to a 
Royalist, but one into the rising dynasty ; then 
we shall be safe, come what may, and this an- 
cient but tottering house will not fall in our day, 
or by any fault of ours.” 

“This may be prudence,” said the baroness. 
“ I think it is ; but it is prudence so hard, world- 
ly, and cynical, that, had I known it was comi> 


54 


WHITE LIES. 


ing, I think I should have sent that child out of 
the room.” 

Laure cast a look of defiance at Josephine for 
not being called a child and she was. 

St. Aubin winced, but kept his temper. 

“Show me, then,” said he, “that you can 
rise to things less cynical and worldly than pru- 
dence. Look at the young man’s virtue, — his 
character. ” 

“ What do we know of his character ?” 

“ What do we know of his character ? Are 
we blind, then, or can we see virtue only when it 
comes to us on paper ? Is there nothing in our 
own souls that recognizes great virtues at sight, 
and cries, ‘Hail! brother?’” 

“Yes! yes! there is!” cried Laure, her eyes 
flaming. 

“Be silent, my child.” 

“ Needs there a long string of scribblers to 
tell us what actions are good and beautiful, and 
beyond the little vulgar and the great vulgar to 
do or to admire? 

“What do you know of his character? You 
know that in a world which vaunts much and 
does nothing but egoism, sometimes bare ego- 
ism, sometimes gilt egoism, but always egoism, 
this poor boy has loved you all as angels love and 
as mortals don’t, and like angels has done you 
good unseen. You know nothing? You know 
he is not rich, yet consecrated half his income 
to you, without hope even of thanks. Is it his 
fault he was found out? No! my young ladies 
there were too cunning for him, or you would 
never have known your angel friend. Read now 
those great Messieurs Corneille and Racine for 
a love so innocent, so delicate, so like a wom- 
an’s, so like an angel’s. Search their immortal 
pages for it — and find it not. 

“ Are you deaf to sentiment, blind to beauty 
of person and the soul ? Then be shrewd, be 
prudent, and be friends with the rising young 
citizen. I have measured him — he is no dwarf. 
He was first at the Ecole PoUtechnique — he won’t 
be last in France. Are you too noble to be pru- 
dent? then be noble enough to hold out the 
hand to the noble and good and beautiful for 
their own sakes, unless, after twenty years’ friend- 
ship, I am any thing to you ; in that case, oh, 
welcome them for mine.” 

The baroness hung her head, but made no an- 
swer. 

“My mother,” said Josephine, imploringly, 
“the dear doctor is in earnest. I fear he may 
doubt our love for him if you refuse him. He 
never spoke so loud before. Mamma, dear 
mamma !” 

“What is it you wish me to do, monsieur?” 

“ Only to receive my friend, and let liim plead 
his own cause.” 

“ 1 consent. I am like Josephine. 1 do not 
love to have an old friend bawling at me.” 

“Thank you, ladies, for your consideration 
for my feelings — and your ears.” 

“Where are 3 'ou going?” 

“ To fetch him !” 

“What, to-day?” 

“ This minute.” 

“ My daughters, this was a trap. Where is 
he? In the Pleasance?” asked she ironicalh% 
taking for granted he was much farther off. 

“ No ; in my room ; trembling at the ordeal 
before him.” 


“It is not too late to retreat; better so than 
give me the pain of dismissing liim.” 

“In one minute he will be with you. Break 
his heart if you arc quite sure there is any real 
necessity ; but at least do it genth\” 

“That is understood. My child, take a turn 
on the terrace.” Laure went out, after shaking 
her snowball at Josephine for being allowed to 
stay and she not. 

“Oh, my dear friend, what a surprise I have 
endured ! what a time v'ou have been !” 

“ I have had a tough battle.” 

“ But you have won? your reasons have pre- 
vailed ?” 

“ My reasons ? — straws ! One of them calls 
them so openly, I forget which. No ! my rea- 
sons fell to the earth unheeded ; didn’t I tell you 
thev would ?” 

‘‘ O Heaven !” 

“But, luckily, in reasoning I shouted. Then 
that angel Josephine said, ‘ Oh, my mother, we 
can not refuse the doctor ; he has shouted — he 
who never shouts.’ New definition of reason — 
an affair of the lungs. Now go and show them 
your pretty face.” 

“Yes ! Oh, my friend, what shall I say? what 
shall I say?” 

“ What matters it what you say ? Wis- 
dom won’t help you, folly won’t hurt you ; 
still, by way of being extremely cautious, I 
wouldn’t utter too much good sense. Turn 
two beseeching eyes upon her : add the lan- 
guage of your face to the logic of my lungs, 
and win. Come.” 

“ Madame, this is Monsieur Edouard Riviere, 
my friend.” 

A stately reverence from the baroness. 

“May my esteem and his own merits procure 
him at your hands favorable treatment, and 
should you find him timid and flurried, and lit- 
tle able to address you fluently, allow, I pray \’ou, 
for his youth, for the modesty that accompanies 
merit, and for the agitation of his heart at such 
a moment. I leave you.” 

Edouard, trembling and confused, stammered, 
scarcely above a whisper j 

“ Oh, madame, I feel I shall need all my 
friend’s excuses and here his whisper died out 
altogether, and his tongue seemed to glue itself 
to something and lose the power of motion. 

“Calm yourself, monsieur ; I listen to you.” 

“ Madame, I do not deserve her — but I love 
her. My position is not what she merits — but 
I love her.” 

“ How can that be, monsieur ? — you do not 
know' her.” 

“ Ah yes, madame ! — I know her : there are 
; souls that speak through the countenance : I have 
j lived on hers too long not to know her. Say 
rather \'ou do not know me — }'ou maj’ well hesi- 
tate to allow one unknowm to come near so great 
a treasure. There I am sure is the true obstacle. 
Well, madame, as my merits are small, let my 
request be moderate : give me a trial. Let me 
visit you — I am not old enough to be a hvpocrite : 

^ if I am undeserving, such an eye as yours wdll 
j soon detect me : you will dismiss me, and I shall 
I go at a word, for I am proud too, though I have 
I so little to be proud of.” 

1 “ You do not appear to see, monsieur, that 


WHITE LIES. 


this little experiment will compromise my daugh- 
ter ?” 

“ Not at all, madnme, I promise it shall not. 

I swear I will not j^resume on any opportunity 
your goodness shall give me. Consider, madarae, 
it is only here that I can make you acquainted, 
with my character : you never leave the chateau, 
madame ; let me come to the chateau now and 
then ; oh, pray let me come, madame the baron- 
ess!” and he turned his beseeching eyes on 
her. 

“ Was ever any thing so unreasonable ?” 

“All I madame, the more I shall bless you if 
you will be so generous as not to refuse me.” 

“But if it is my duty to refuse you ?” 

“Then I shall die, madame, that is all.” 

“ Childishness !” 

“And you will be sorry.” 

“ You think so !” 

“Oh yes! for madame has a good heart — 
only she cart not see, and will not believe h-li- 
how I 1-love.” 

“ Child ! now if you cry, I will send you away 
at once. One would say I am very cruel, but I 
am not ; I am only in my senses, and this child 
is not. In the first place, these things arc not 
done in this way. The approaches are made, 
not by the young madman himself, but by his 
parents : these open the treaty with the parent 
or parents of the lady.” 

“ But, madame, I am not so fortunate as to 
have a parent.” 

“ What ! no father?” 

“ No, madame. I can not even remember my 
father.” 

“No mother?” 

“ Madame, she died five years ago. Made- 
moiselle Josephine can tell you what I lost that 
day. If she was alive she would be about your 
age. Ah, no, madame ! you may be sure she is 
gone from me, or I should not kneel before you 
thus friendless. She would come to you and say, 

‘ Madame, you are a mother as I am — feel for 
me — my son loves your daughter; he will die if 
you refuse him. Have pity on me and on my 
son. I know him — he is not unworthy.’ Oh, 
Mademoiselle Josephine, speak a word for me, 

I implore you ; for me who, less happy than you, 
have no mother — for me who speak so ill, and j 
have so much need to speak well. I shall be re- 
jected — by my own fault. Can one have so 
much to say and say so little ? Can the heart 
be so full and the tongue so powerless? My 
mother, why did you leave me ?” 

The baroness rose. 

She turned her head away. 

Riviere awaited his doom trembling with agi- 
tation, and wishing he had said any thing but 
what he had said ; he saw, too, a little tremor ; 
pass over the baroness, but did not know how 
to interpret that. 

“The emotion such words cause me — no, Ij 
can not. My cIhM, you shall leave me now. I 
will send you my answer by letter.” 

These last words were spoken in almost a 
coaxing tone, in a much kinder tone than she 
had ever used before, and Edouard’s hopes rose. 

“Oh yes, madame,” said he, innocently, “I 
prefer it so; thank you, madame, from the bot- 
tom of my heart, thank you !” 

He paused in the middle of his gratitude, for : 
to his sur])risc the baroness’s eyes suddenly be- 1 


came fixed with horror and astonishment. He 
wheeled round to see what direful object had so 
transfixed her, and caught Josephine behind 
him, but at some distance, looking at her moth- 
er with an imploring face, a face to melt a tig- 
eress, and both her white hands clasped together 
in a mute supplication, and her cheeks wet. 

When she saw herself detected, she attemptwl 
no further secrecy, but came forward, her hands 
still clasped. 

“ Ah, no, my mother !” Then she turned to 
Edouard. “ Do you not see she is going to re- 
fuse you by letter because she has not the cour- 
age to look in your sweet face and strike you ?” 

“Ah, traitress! traitress!” shrieked the bar- 
oness. 

Edouard sighed. 

Josephine stood supplicating. 

“ A new light strikes me,” cried the old lady ; 
“ what a horror ! Why, Josephine, — my daugh- 
ter, — is it possible you are interested — to such a 
degree — in this — ” 

Josephine lowered her lovely head. 

“ Yes, my mother,” said she,* just above a whis- 
per. 

The baroness groaned. 

Edouard, to comfort her, began : 

“But, madame, it is not — ” 

“Ah! hold your tongue,” cried Josephine, 
hastily, in an accent of terror. 

The mystified one held his tongue. 

“She is right, monsieur,” said the baroness, 
dryly : “ leave her alone, she will have more in- 
fluence with me than you. In a word, monsieur, 
I am about to consult my daughter in this wise 
and well-ordered affair. Be pleased to excuse 
us a few minutes.” 

“Certainly, madame.” He took his hat. 

“I will send for you. Meantime go and play 
with that other child on the terrace,” said she, 
spitefully ; for all her short-lived feeling in his 
favor was gone noAv. 

IVIonsieur Edouard bowed respectfully, and 
submitted demurely to his penance. 

“ All is ended,” said the baroness ; “ the sen- 
timents that have corrupted the nation have end- 
ed by penetrating into my family, — my eldest 
daughter flings herself at a man’s head, — again 
it is not a man, but a boy, with the face of an 
angel.” 

Josephine glided to her mother’s side, and 
sank on her knees. 

“My mother, liaA’C some little confidence in 
your Josephine! Am I so very foolish? Am 
I so very wicked ?” And she laid her cheek 
against her mother’s. 

The old lady kissed her. 

“ Thou shall have him, — thou shall have him ! 
my well-beloved : have no fear: thy mother loves 
thee too well to vex thee.” But at this the old 
lady began to sob and to cry: “They are tak- 
i ing away my children ! they are taking aAvay 
' my children !” And to the doctor, who came 
in full of curiosity, she cried out: “Ah! you 
are come, you ! — enjoy then your triumph, for 
you have won !” 

“ All the better !” cried the doctor, gayly. 

“Nevertheless, it was a sorry triumph to come 
to a poor old w’onian from whom they had taken 
all except her daughters, and to rob her of them, 
j too, — ah I” 

1 The doctor hung his head : then he stepped 


oG 


WHITE LIES. 


quickly up to her with great concern, and took 
her hand. 

“ My dear, dear friend,” he cried, “ the laws 
of Nature are inevitable. Sooner or later the 
young birds must leave the parent’s nest.” 

“ Nature is very cruel, — oh ! oh !” 

“She but seems so, because she is unchange- 
able. There is another law, to which you and 
I must both yield ere long.” 

“Yes, my friend.” 

“Shall we go, and leave these tender ones to 
choose mates and protectors for themselves, out 
of a world of Avolves in sheep’s clothing? Shall 
we refuse them, while we live, the light of our 
age and wisdom in this the act that is to color 
their whole lives ?” 

“ You have always reason on your side, you. 
"Well ! send for the young man. lie is good : he 
will forgive me if, in spite of myself, I should be 
sometimes rude to him : he will understand that 
to my daughter he is a lover, but to me a bur- 
glar, — a highway robber, — poor child! He is 
very handsome all the same. Next, he has no 
mother, — if I was not so wicked I should try 
and supply her place, — you see I am reasonable. 
Tell me now how long it will be before you come 
to me for Laure'? Oh, do not be afraid : I will 
let her go too. I will not give all this trouble 
a second time, — the first struggle it is that tears 
us. Yet I knew it must come some day. But 
I did not expect it so soon. No matter — I will 
be reasonable — to-day is the fourth of November. 
I shall remember the fourth of November, — go 
to. All I ask is, when they are both gone, and 
the house is quite, quite desolate, then suffer 
me to die, — when all I love is gone from me. 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!” 

“Monsieur Perrin, the notary, is below and 
would speak to madame,” said Jacintha, at the 
door. 

“Ah! I remember, away with our tears, my 
friends : here comes one who Avould not under- 
stand them. He would say, ‘ What, have they 
all the toothache at once, in this house ? ” 

St. Aubin, after the first compliments, retired ; 
and the notary, the baroness, and Josephine seat- 
ed themselves in a triangle. 

He began by confessing to them that he had 
not overcome the refractory creditor without much 
trouble ; and that he had since learned there 
was another, a larger creditor, likely to press 
for payment or for sale of the estate. The bar- 
oness was greatly agitated by this communica- 
tion : the notary remained cool as a cucumber, 
and keenly observant. 

“Bonard,” said he, “ has put this into their 
heads ; otherwi.se I believe they never would 
haA’e thought of it.” 

He went on to say all this had caused him 
grave reflections. 

“It seems,” said he, Avith cool candor, “a 
sad pity that the estate should pass from a fam- 
ily that has held it sinec the days of Charle- 
magne.” 

“ Noav God forbid!” cried the baroness, lift- 
ing her eyes and her quivering hands to Heaven. 

Now the notary held the Republican creed in 
all its branches. 

“ Providence, madame, docs not interfere in 
matters of business,” said he. “Nothing but 
money can save the estate. Let us then look at 


things solid. Has any means occurred to yon of 
raising money to pay off these encumbrances ?” 

“ No. What means can there be ? The estate 
is mortgaged to its full value : so they all say.” 

“ And they say true !” put in the notary, quick- 

b'- 

“ There is no hope.” 

“Do not distress yourself, madame: I am 
here!!” 

“Ah, my good friend, may Ileav'cn reAA’ard 
you.” 

“Madame, up to the present time I have no 
complaint to make of this same Heaven. By-the- 
by, permit me to shoAv you that I am on the rise : 
here, mademoiselle, is a gimcrack they have 
given me and he unbuttoned his overcoat, 
and shoAved them a piece of tricolored ribbon 
and a clasp. “ As for me, I look to the solid, 
I care little for these things,” said .he, secretly 
bursting Avith gratified vanity; “but the Avorld 
is dazzled by them. HoAvever, I can shoAV you 
something better. ” He took out a letter. ‘ ‘ This 
is from the Minister of the Interior to a client 
of mine : it amounts to a promise I shall be the 
next prefect, and the present prefect — I am 
happy to say — is on his death-bed. Thus, ma- 
dame, your humble servant in a few short months 
Avill be notary no longer, but prefect ; I shall 
then sell my office of notary, — it is worth one 
hundred thousand francs, — and I flatter myself 
Avhen I am a prefect you Avill not blush to own 
me.” 

“Then as noAv, monsieur,” said the baron- 
ess, politely, “Ave shall recognize your merit. 
But — ” 

“ I understand, madame : like me, you look to 
‘what is solid. Thus then it is : I hav'e money.” 

“ Ah ! all the better for you.” 

“ I have a good deal of money. But it is dis- 
persed in a great many small, though profitable 
inve.stments. Now to call it in suddenly would 
entail some loss.” 

“ I do not doubt it.” 

“ NeA'er mind, madame, if you and my young 
lady there have ever so little of that friendly 
feeling towards me of Avhich I have so much to- 
wards you, all my investments shall be called 
in. Six months Avill do it ; tAvo thirds of your 
creditors shall be paid off at once. A single 
party on Avhom I can depend, one of my clients, 
Avho dares not quarrel Avith me, Avill adA^ance the 
remaining third ; and so the estate Avill be safe. 
In another six months eA^en that diminished debt 
shall be liquidated, and Beaurepaire chateau, 
park, estate, and grounds, doAvn to the old oak- 
tree, shall be as free as air; and no poAver shall 
alienate them from you, mademoiselle, and from 
the heirs of your body.” 

The baroness clasped her hands in ecstasy. 

“ But what are Ave to do for this, monsieur?” 
inquired Josephine, calmly, “for it seems to me 
that it can only be effected by great sacrifices on 
your part.” 

“I thank you, mademoiselle, for your pene- 
tration in seeing that I must make sacrifices. 
I Avould never haA'e told you, but you have seen 
it,— and I do not regret that you have seen it. 
Madame, mademoiselle, those sacrifices appear 
little to me, — Avill seem nothing,— Avill never bo 
mentioned, or even alluded to, after tins day, if 
you, on your part, Avill lay me under a far heavier 
obligation, — if in short,” — here the contemner of 


WHITE LIES. 


57 


things unsubstantial re-opened his coat, and 
brought his ribbon to light again, — “if you, 
inadame, will acceit' me for your son-in- 

law, IP YOU, MADEMOISELLE, WILL TAKE ME 

FOR YOUR HUSBAND !” 

The baroness and her daughter looked at one 
another in silence. 

“Is it a jest?’’ inquired the former of the 
latter. 

“Can you think so, my mother? Answer 
Monsieur Perrin. Above all, my mother, re- 
member he has just done us a kind office.” 

“I shall remember it. Monsieur, permit me 
to regret that, having lately won our gratitude 
and esteem, you have taken this way of modify- 
ing those feelings. But after all,” she added 
with gentle courtesy, “ we may well put your 
good deeds against this — this error in judgment. 
The balance is in your favor still, provided you 
never return to this topic. Come, is it agreed ?” 

The baroness’s manner was full of tact, and the 
latter sentences were said with an open kindli- 
ness of manner. 

There was nothing to prevent Perrin from 
dropping the subject and remaining good friends. 
A gentleman or a lover would have so done. 

Monsieur Perrin was neither. He said in 
rather a threatening tone: “You refuse me 
then, madame ! !” 

The tone and the words were each singly too 
much for the baroness’s pride. She answered 
coldly but civilly : — 

“I do not refuse you. I do not take an af- 
front into consideration.” 

“Be calm, my mother,” said Josephine ; “ no 
affront was intended.” 

“ Ah ! here is one that is more reasonable,” 
cried Perrin. 

“ There are men,” continued Josephine, with- 
out noticing him, “who look to but one thing — 
interest. It was an offer made politely in the 
way of business ; decline it in the same spirit, 
my mother; that is what you have to do.” 

“ Monsieur, you hear what mademoiselle 
says ?” 

“ I am not deaf, madame.” 

“ She carries politeness a long way. After all, 
it is a good fault. Well, monsieur, I need not 
answer you, since Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire 
has answered you ; but 1 detain you no longer.” 

Strictly a weasel has no business with the 
temper of a tiger, but this one had, and the long 
vindictiveness of a Corsican. 

“ Ah ! my little lady, you turn me out of the 
house, do you ?” cried he, grinding his teeth. 

“ Turn him out of the house ! what a phrase ! 
My daughter, where has this man lived ?” 

“To the devil with phrases. You turn me 
out ! A man, my little ladies, whom none ever 
yet insulted without repenting it, and repenting 
in vain. You are under obligations to me, and 
you think to turn me out ! You are at my 
mercy, and you think I will let you turn me to 
your door ! Say again to me, either with or 
without phrases, * Sortez T and by all the devils 
in less than a month I will stand here, here, 
here, and say to you, ‘ Sortez .'’ ” 

“Ah ! — mon Dim! mon Dieu!" 

“I will say, ‘ Beaure])aire is mine! Begone 
from it !’ ” 

Wlieii he uttered these terrible words, each of 


which was a blow with a bludgeon to the baron- 
ess, the old lady, whose courage was not equal 
to her spirit, shrank over the side of her arm- 
chair and cried piteously : “ lie threatens me ! 
he threatens me 1 I am frightened ?” and put up 
her trembling hands, so suggestive was tlie no- 
tary’s eloquence of physical violence. Then his 
brutality received an unexpected check. Im- 
agine that a sparrow-hawk had seized a trem- 
bling pigeon, and that a royal falcon swooped, 
and, with one lightning-like stroke of body and 
wing, buffeted him away, and there he was on his 
back, gaping and glaring and grasping at nothing 
with his claws. So swift and irresistible, but far 
more terrible and majestic, Josephine de Beaure- 
paire came from her chair with one gesture of her 
body between her mother and the notary, who 
was advancing on her with arms folded in a 
brutal, menacing way, — not the Josephine we 
have seen her, the calm, languid beauty, but 
the demoiselle De Beaurepaire, her great heart 
on fire, — her blood up, — not her own only, but 
all the blood of all the Do Beaurepaires, — pale 
as ashes with great wrath, her purple eyes flaring, 
and her whole panther-like body ready either to 
spring or strike. 

“Slave! you dare to insult her, and before 
me ! Arnere, misdrahle !* or I soil my hand 
with your face !” And her hand was up with 
the word, up, up, higher it seemed than ever a 
hand lifted before. And if he had hesitated one 
moment, I believe it would have come down ; 
and if it had he would have gone to her feet be- 
fore it : not under its weight, — the lightning is 
not heavy, — but under the soul that would have 
struck with it : but there was no need ; the tow- 
ering threats and the flaming eye and the swift 
rush buffeted the caitiff away : he recoiled three 
steps and nearly fell down. She followed him 
as he went, strong in that moment as Hercules, 
beautiful and terrible as Michael driving Satan. 
He dared not, or rather he could not, stand be- 
fore her ; he wreathed and cowered and recoiled 
all down the room, while she marched upon him. 
Then the driven serpent hissed as it wriggled 
away. 

“For all this she too shall be turned out of 
Beaurc])aire, not like me, but forever. I swear 
it, parole de Perrin.” 

“ She shall never be turned out. I swear it, 
foi de De Beaurepaire.” 

“ You too, daughter of Sa — ” 

“ Tais toi, et sors a I'instant mane. — Laciie !”t 

The old lady moaning and trembling and all 
but fainting in her chair : the young noble like 
a destroying angel, hand in air, and great eye 
scorching and withering ; and the caitiff wriggling 
out at the door, wincing with body and head, his 
knees knocking, his heart panting yet raging, his 
teeth gnashing, his cheek livid, his eye gleaming 
with the fire of hell. 

'■ ■ ^ 

CHAPTER XII. 

“ Mademoiselle, your mother has sent me 
here to play with you.” 

“ Monsieur !” 

* Back ! wretch !” 

t “ Hold your tongue ! and begone this very moment, 
, coward and slave I” 


58 


WHITE LIES. 


“ It is true. She said, ‘ Go and play with that 
other cliild.’” 

“ Mcsdames our mothers take liberties whicdi 
we do not put up with from a stranger.” 

“Mademoiselle, I felt like you at such a term 
being applied to me, but it is sweet to share any 
thing with you, even an affront, a stigma.” 

“ So they sent you to amuse me ?” asked the 
beauty, royally. 

“It appears so.” 

“ Whether I like or not ?” 

“ No, mademoiselle, at a word from you I was 
to leave you : that was understood.” 

“ Go away.” 

“ I go.” 

He retired. 

“Monsieur Riviere,” called the lady to him, 
in a calm, friendly tone as if nothing had hap- 
pened. 

He came back. 

“How thoughtless you are: you are going 
away without telling me what you have been 
saying to my mother about me behind my back.” 

“ I never mentioned you, mademoiselle!” 

“ Oh ! oh ! all the better 1” 

Then this child told that child all he had said 
to the baroness, and her replies ; and this child 
blushed in telling it and looked timidly every 
now and then to see how that capricious child 
took it : and that capricious child wore a lofty, 
contemplative air, as much as to say, “I am 
listening out of politeness to a dry abstract of 
certain matters purely speculative wherein lhave 
no personal interest.” Certain blushes that came 
and went gave a charming incongruity to the 
performance, and might have made an aged by- 
stander laugh. 

When he came to tell Josephine’s interference, 
and how her mother thought it was she he loved ; 
and how Josephine, to his great surprise had 
favored the delusion ; and how, on this, the tide 
had turned directly in his favor, our young actress 
being of an impetuous^nature and oft' her guard 
a moment burst out, “ Ah, I recognize you there, 
my good Josephine !” but she had no sooner said 
this than she lowered her eyes and her check 
burned. 

Riviere was mystified. 

“But mademoiselle,” said he, “do pray ex- 
])lain to me — can I be mistaken after all ? — is 
she— ?” 

“ Is she what ?” 

“ I mean docs she — ?” 

“ Does she what?” 

“ You know what I mean.” 

“ No, I do not ; how should I ? The vanity 
of these children ! Now, if she did, would she 
have confessed before you that she did ?” 

“Well I am astonished at you, mademoiselle 
Laure ; Jacinthathen is right ; you acknowledge 
that every thing your sex savs is a falsehood — 
oh fie!” 

“No! not every thing,” replied Laure with 
nai’vefe unparalleled, “ only certain things! don’t 
tease me,” cried she, with sudden small violence; 
“of this be sure, that Josephine was a good 
friend to you, not because she loves children, but 
because she is not one of us at all, but an angel 
and loves every body — even monsieur.” 

“This is what I think,” said Edouard, gravely. 
“The baroness fancies you a child — you are 
woman enough to puzzle me, mademoiselle.” 


“That may easily be.” 

“And mademoiselle Josephine thought I should 
not be allowed to come into the house at all, if, 
at that critical moment, another prejudice came 
in the way.” 

“ What prejudice ?” 

“ That you are too young to love.” 

“That is no prejudice; it is a fact. I am, 
monsieur — I am much too young.” 

“No ! I was confused. I mean too young to 
be loved.” 

“ Oh, I am not too young for that — not a bit 
too young.” 

“"And so the angel Josephine temporized, out 
of pity to me : that is my solution, and, — ah ! 
Heaven bless her !” 

“ Forgive me if I say your solution is a very 
absurd one.” 

“It is the true one.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“ Positive.” 

“ Then it is no use my contradicting you.” 

“ Not the least.” 

“ Then I shall not contradict you.” 

“Ah, well! mademoiselle angel, perhaps my 
turn will come,” said the young man, his lips 
trembling. “Won’t I cut myself in pieces for 
you at a word, that is all.” 

“ I like you better when you talk so.” 

‘ ‘ Mademoiselle Laure ?” 

“ Monsieur Edouard ?” 

“ If you will come to where the great oak-tree 
stands.” 

“ To the Pleasance, you mean?” 

“ To the Pleasance, is it ? What lovely names 
every thing has here ! Well, if you will come 
into the Pleasance, I will make you a drawing 
of that dear old tree I love so.” 

“And what right have you to love it? — it is 
not yours : it is ours. You are always loving 
something you baA'e no business to.” 

“I love things that one can’t help loving — is 
that a crime?” 

“ He can’t help loving a tree, tender nature !” 

“No, I can’t help loving a tree out of which 
you introduced yourself to me.” 

“ Insolent! Well, draw it with two ladies fly- 
ing out, and a boy rooted with terror.” 

“There is no need. That scene is more than 
drawn, it is engraved on all our memories for- 
ever !” 

“ Not on mine ! not on mine ! Oh ! how ter- 
tified you were — ha ! ha ! — and how terrified we 
should have been if you had not. Listen : once 
upon a time — don’t be alarmed : it was after 
Noah — a frightened hare ran by a pond ; the frogs 
splashed into the water in terror. She said, ‘ Ah 
ha ! there are then those 1 frighten in my turn : I 
am the thunderbolt of war.’ Excuse my quoting 
La Fontaine : I am not in ‘ Charles the Twelfth 
of Sweden’ yet. I am but a child.” 

“ And I am glad of it, for when you grow up 
you will be too much for me, that is evident. 
Come, then, mademoiselle the quizzer.” 

“ Monsieur, shall I make you a confession? 
You will not be angry : I could not support your 
displeasure.” 

“I am afraid you could: so I wfill not try 
you.” 

“Then I have a strange inclination to walk 
up and down this terrace whilst you draw that 
tree in the Pleasance.” 


WHITE LIES. 


59 


“Resist that inclination: perhaps it will fly 
from you.” 

“No ! you fly from me and draw. I will re- 
join you in a few minutes,” 

“ Thank you ! Not so stupid !” 

“Do you doubt my word, sir?” asked she,’ 
haughtily. 

“Heaven forbid, mademoiselle! only I did 
not see at first that’ it was a serious promise you 
are doing me the honor to make me. I go.” 

He went, and placed himself on the west side 
of the oak and took out his sketch-book, and 
worked zealously and rapidly. He had done 
the outlines of the tree and was finishing in de- 
tail a part of the huge trunk, when his eyes were 
suddenly dazzled: in the middle of the rugged 
bark, deformed here and there with great wart- 
like bosses, and wrinkled, seamed, and ploughed 
all over with age, burst a bit of variegated color : 
bright as a poppy on a dungeon wall, it glowed 
and glittered out through a large hole in the 
brown dark ; it was Laure’s face peeping. To 
our young lover’s eye how divine it shone ! 
None of the half-tints of common flesh were 
there, but a thing all rose, lily, sapphire, and 
soul. His pencil dropped, his mouth opened, 
he was downright dazzled by the glowing, be- 
witching face, sparkling with fun in the gaunt 
tree. Tell me, ladies, did she know the value 
of that sombre frame to her brightness? Oh, 
no, — she was only a child !!!!!! 

The moment she found herself detected, the 
gaunt old tree rang nmsical with a crystal laugh, 
and out came the arch-dryad. 

“I have been there all the time. How sol- 
emn you looked ! — ha! ha! Now for the result 
of such profound study.” 

He showed her his work ; she altered her 
tone. 

“Oh! how clever,” she cried, “and how 
rapid ! What a facility you have ! Monsieur is 
an artist,” said she gravely: “I will be more 
respectful,” and she dropped him a low courtesy. 
“Mind you promised it to me,” she added, 
sharply. 

“ You will accept it, then ?” 

“That I will: it will be worth having: I 
never reckoned on that, — hence my nonchalance. 
Finish it directly,” cried this peremptory young 
person. 

“First I must trouble you to stand out there 
near the tree.” 

“ What for ?” 

“ Because I want a contrast. The tree is a 
picture of Age and gradual decay ; by its side, 
then, 1 must place a personification of Youth 
and growing loveliness.” 

She did not answer, but made a sort of pir- 
ouette, and went where she was bid, and stood 
there with her back to the artist. 

“But that will not do, mademoiselle; you 
must turn round.” 

“Oh, very well.” And when she came 
round he saw her color was high. Flattery is 
sweet. 

This child of nature was pleased, and ashamed 
that it should be seen that she was pleased, — and 
so he drew her ; and kept looking ofl' the paper at 
her, and had a right in his character of artist to 
look her full in the face, and he did so with 
long, lingering glances beginning severe and 
business-like, and ending tender, that she, poor 


girl, hardly knew which way to look, not to be 
scorched up by his eye like a tender flower, or 
blandly absorbed like the pearly dew. Ah ! 
happy hour ! ah ! happy days of youth, and in- 
nocence, and first love ! 

“Here is my sister. Ah! something is the 
matter !” 

Josephine came towards them, pale and pant- 
ing. 

“Oh my children,” she cried, and could not 
speak a moment for agitation. 

They came round her in the greatest con- 
cern. 

“ A great misfortune has fallen on us, and I 
am the cause.” 

“O Heaven ! 

“ We have an enemy now, a deadly enemy. 
Perrin the notary ; Laure — monsieur — he in- 
sulted us — he insulted rny mother — I could not 
bear that — I insulted him.'' 

“You, Josephine?” 

“Yes! you may well wonder. How little we 
know ourselves! but our mother was trembling 
in her chair, her noble, her beloved face all 
pale, — all pale, — and she put up her hands before 
her sacred head, for the ruffian was threatening 
her with his loud voice and brutal gestures.” 

“Oh, my poor mother!” 

Sner-r-re canaille ! — and I not there!” 

“Then in a moment, I know not how, I was 
upon him, and I cried, ‘Back, wretch !’” 

“Well done.” 

“With my hand over his head. Oh, if he 
had faced me a moment, I should have struck 
him with all my soul, and in the face. I should 
have killed him. I was stronger than lions, 
and as fierce. I w^as not myself. I knew no 
fear ; I who now am all fear again. My chil- 
dren, it was but a single coward, — had it been 
a regiment of braves, I should have flung my- 
self upon them, — for my mother. Madwoman 
that 1 was!” 

“You noble creature — you goddess — I only 
loved you, and honored you — now I adore 
you.” 

“Oh, Edouard, you do not sec what my vio- 
lence has done. Alas ! I who love my sister so 
have ruined her. I have ruined the mother I 
tried to protect. I have ruined the house of 
Beaurepaire. For that shrinking coward has 
the heart of a fiend. He told us he had never 
forgiven an affront, — and he holds our fate in 
his hands. ‘You turn me out of the room,’ he 
yelled (oh ! I turn cold now when I think of his 
words), ‘I will turn you out of the room, and 
out of the house as well. You stand here and 
say to me, ^Sortez!' In a little while I will 
stand here, — here, and say to you, '•Sortez!' 
He will do it. It is written in my heart, so hot 
with rage a moment ago, so cold with terror 
now — he will do it — he will come armed with 
the law — the iron law — and say to us poor debt- 
ors — ‘ Sortez !' " 

“And if he does,” said Edouard, firmly, and 
cutting each word with his clenching teeth, 
“ this is what will happen. I wnll cut his liver 
out with my dog-whip before you all, and you 
will not go at all.” 

“That is spoken like a man!” cried Laure, 
warmly. 

“You talk like a child,” said Josephine. 


60 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Yet perhaps you might do something. Will 
you do something for me ?” 

“ Did you do nothing for me to-day, that you 
put such a question ?” 

“ We will not speak of that my friend.” 

“ No,” cried the boy, trembling with emotion, 
“we will not talk of it; these are not things to 
tal!coi\ but we will — ” And for lack of words he 
seized upon both her hands and kissed them vio- 
lently, and then seized her gown and kissed 
that. 

“You know Bonard the farmer, — he lives 
about a league from this.” 

“Yes ! yes ! 

“Run thither across the meadows, and find 
out whether Perrin has been to him since leav- 
ing the chateau. He has only a few minutes’ 
start ; you will perhaps arrive before he leaves.” 

“ Before he leaves ! I shall be there before 
him. Do you think a dun cow can carry a 
scoundrel towards villainy as fast as I can go to 
please an angel ?” 

“You will come back to Beaurepaire and tell 
me ?” 

“Y'es! yes!” and he was gone. 

The sisters followed slowly to the gate, and 
watched* the impetuous boy run across the 
park. 

“He does not take the path,” said Joseph- 
ine. 

“ Oh,” said Laure, “what are paths to him? 
He has no prejudice in favor of beaten tracks. 
He is going the shortest way to Bonard, that we 
may be sure of.” 

“ How gallantly he runs, Laure ; how high he 
holds his head ; how easily he moves ; and yet 
how he clears the ground, — already at the edge 
of the park. ” 

“Yes, but, Josephine, the strong bramble 
hedge, — there is no gap there, — no stile. What 
will he do? Ah 1” 

Edouard had solved the riddle of the hedge ; 
by a familiar manoeuvre unknown to those 
ladies until that moment, he increased his pace 
and took a flying leap right at the hedge, but, 
turning in the air, came at it with his back in- 
stead of his face, and, by his weight and impetus, 
contrived to burst through Briareus in a mo- 
ment, and w'as next seen a furlong beyond it. 

The girls looked at one another. Josephine 
smiled sadly. Laure looked up hopefully. 

“All our lives we have thought that hedge a 
barrier no mortal could pass, — he didn’t make 
much of it. Have courage then, my sister.” 

“ Laure, go in and comfort our mother.” 

“Yes, my sister, — alone? Where are you 
going ?” 

“ To the oratory.” 

“Ah ! you are right.” 

“ Oh, Laure, the blessing and the comfort of 
believing the God of the fatherless is stronger 
than wicked men. Dark days arc coming, my 
sister. ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Laure tried to comfort her mother ; the con- 
soling topic she chose \vas young Riviere. She 
described his zeal, his determination to baffle the 
enemy, how, she did not know, but she w'as sure 


he would somehow ; and, to crown all, his jump- 
ing through the hedge. 

The baroness listened like a wounded porcupine 
round whom a fly buzzes. The notary was her 
wound ; the statesman her worrying fly. When 
her patience wuis exhausted, she lashed out 
against him. 

Now, capricious imps like Laure, whom their 
very nature seems to impel to tease and flout, 
and even quarrel with a lover to his face, are 
balanced by another stronger impulse, — viz. to 
defend him behind his back, ay, with more spirit 
tlien those who have more loving natures. Per- 
haps they feel they owe him this reparation. Per- 
haps to abuse him is to infringe their monopoly, 
and they can’t stand that. 

Laure defended Edouard so warmly, that, be- 
tween her mother’s sagacity and her own vexa- 
tion at his being sneered at by any body but her, 
and also at her being called once or twice in the 
course of the argument by the hateful epithet 
“a child,” it transpired that she was the young 
lady Edouard came to Beaurepaire for. 

The baroness was so shocked at this that Laure 
repented bitterly her unguarded tongue. 

“Oh, mamma! don’t look so, — pray, don’t 
look so ! Mamma dear, be angry again, do pray 
be very angry : but don’t look,so at your Laure. I 
could not help growing up. I could not help 
being like you, mamma. So then they call that 
being pretty, and come teasing me. But I am 
not obliged to love him, mamma, do pray re- 
member that. I don’t care for him the least in 
the world, not as I do for you and Josephine; 
and if he brings dissension here, I shall hate 
him ! ah yes ! you could easily make me hate 
him, — poor boy !” 

“ I w'as wrong : it is a weakness of parents 
never to see that their children are young wom- 
en.” 

“lam nineteen and a half, my mother, and he 
is only twenty-one. So, you see, it is very nat- 
ural.” 

“Yes ! it is very natural, — there, go and tell 
the doctor all that has happened this miserable 
day. For I am worn out, — quite worn out. Let 
me have some one of my own age to talk to. 
Ah ! how unhappy I am !” 

. Never since our story commenced did a sadder, 
gloomier party sit round the little table and its 
one candle in the corner of that vast saloon. 

Josephine filled with gloomy apprehensions, 
and accusing herself of the ruin of the family. 

The doctor, sharing her anxieties, and bitterly 
mortified at the defeat of reason and St. Aubin : 
at having been deceived by this wolf in sheep’s 
clothing. 

Laure sad, for now for the first time they were 
not all united in opinion, as well as in trouble, 
and she herself the cause. 

The baroness in a state of prostration, and 
looking years older than in the morning. 

“ You are w'orn out, madame,” said the good 
doctor ; “ let me persuade you to retire to rest 
a little earlier than usual.” 

“ No, my friend, I want to sit and look at you 
all a little longer. Who knows how long we 
shall be together ?” 

There w'as a heavy silence. 

Laure wdiispered to Josephine: “Tell our 
mother she can dismiss him whenever she 
pleases : it is all one to me.” 


WHITE LIES. 


“No ! no !” said Josephine, “ that is not what 
she is thinking of. She is right; I have ruined 
you all.” 

The door opened. 

“Monsieur Kiviere,” cried Jacintha: and a 
moment after the young man shone in the door- 
way. 

“Is this an hour — ?” began the baroness. 

“He comes by my request,” said Josephine, 
hastily. 

“ That is a different thing.” 

Edouard came down the saloon with a brisk 
step and a general animation, and joined the 
languid group like a sunbeam struggling into 
thick fog. He bowed all round. 

“Mademoiselle, he has been there. As I 
jumped over the last stile, that dun pony trotted 
into the yard ; I say, how he must have spurred 
him.” 

Josephine, who had risen all excited to hear 
his report, sat down again with a gentle, de- 
sponding mien. 

“ I waited in ambush to see what became of 
him. He was with the farmer a good hour, — 
then he tvent home. I followed him ; but I did 
nothing, — you understand, because I had not 
precise orders from you ; but I went hence, and 
got my dog-whip, — here it is : whenever you give 
the word, or hold up your little finger to that 
effect, it shall be applied, and with a will,” — 
crack, and the ex-school-boy smacked his whip, 
meaning to make a little crack_, but it went off 
like a pistol-shot. 

“ Ah !” cried the baroness, and nearly jumped 
out of her seat. 

Edouard was abashed. 

“ The young savage !” cried Laure, and smiled 
approvingly. 

“It is no question of dog- whips,” said St. 
Aubin, with dignity. 

“And the man is enough our enemy without 
our giving him any real cause to hate us,” re- 
monstrated Josephine. 

“We shall not be here long,” muttered the 
baroness, gloomily. 

“Forgive nxe if I venture to contradict you, 
madame.” 

“We are ruined, — and no power can save 
us.” 

“Yes, madame, there is one who can.” 

“Who can save me now?” asked the bar- 
oness, with deep despondency. 

“ I !” 

“You? child?” 

“I ! if you will permit me.” 

This frantic anouncement took them so by 
surprise that they had not even the presence of 
mind to exclaim against its absurdity, but sat 
looking at one another. 

The statesman took advantage of their petri- 
faction, and began to do a little bit of pomposity. 

“Madame the baroness, and you, monsieur, 
who have honored me with your esteem, and 
you. Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire, w’hom I 
adore, and you. Mademoiselle Laure, w'hom I- — 
whom I hope to be permitted — whom I — lis- 
ten all. You have this day done me the honor 
to admit me to an intimacy I have long sought 
in vain : let me then this day try to make you 
some small return, and to justify in some de- 
gree Monsieur St. Aubin, my kind advocate. 
Eladam, it is your entire ignorance of business. 


G1 

and unfortunate neglect of your property, that 
made you fancy yourself ruined.” 

The baroness laughed bitterly at the boy. 
Then her head drooped. 

“ Let us come to facts. You are living now 
upon about one thousand two hundred francs a 
year, — the balance of your rents, after the inter- 
est of your loans is paid.” 

Oh ! — and they were astonished and terrified 
at his knowledge of their secret, and blushed in 
silence for their poverty. 

“Your real balance, after paying your credits 
ors, is — that is, ought to be — five thousand two 
hundred francs. Your farms are let a good 
forty per cent below their value : your tenants 
are of two classes, — those who never had any 
leases, and those whose leases have long been 
run out. The tenants are therefore in your pow- 
er, and whenever you can pluck up resolution 
to have your real income, say the w’ord, and I 
will get it you.” 

The baroness smiled faintly. 

“Monsieur,” said she, “you are right, I un- 
derstand little of business ; but this I know, that 
the farms are let too high, not too low. They 
all say so.” 

“ Who says so, madam ?” 

“They who should know best, — the tenants 
themselves. Two of their wives came here last 
week and complained of the hard times.” 

“What! the smooth-faced cheats, the liars 
whose interest it is to chant that tune. Give 
me better evidence.” 

“That man, the notary, he said so. And in 
that point at least I see not what interest — ” 

“ You — don’t — see — what — interest — ho 
has!” cried Edouard. 

“ On me coupe la parole,"* said the fine lady, 
dolefully, looking round with an air of piteous 
surprise on them all. 

“Forgive me, madame: zeal for you boiled 
over ; but now is it possible you don’t see what 
interest that canaille of a pettifogger has ?” 

“ What phrases !” 

“In humbugging you on that point!” 

“ It is a whole vocabulary ! ! !” 

“Blame the things and the people, not me, 
madame, since I do but call both hy their true 
names.” 

“ Which, if not so polite as to call them by 
other names, is more scientific,” suggested St. 
Aubin. 

“Madame, pray see the thing as it is, and if 
you insist on elegant phrases, well then : Beaure- 
paire is a dying kid that all the little ravens 
about here are feeding on, and all the larger 
vultures, or Perrins, are scheming to cany away 
to their own nests. The estate of Beaurepaire 
is the cream of the district. The first baron 
knew how to choose land ; perhaps he took the 
one bit of soil on which he found something 
growing by the mere force of nature, all being' 
alike uncultivated in that barbarous time ; it is 
a rich clay tvatered by half a dozen brooks. 
Ah! if you could farm it yourself, as my uncle 
does his, you might bo wealthy in spite of its en- 
cumbrances.” 

“ Farm it ourselves ! Is he mad ?” 

“No, madame; it is not I who am mad. 
Why, if you go to that, it requires no skill to 


* lie takes the words out of ray mouth. 


G2 


WHITE LIES. 


deal with meadow land, especially such land as 
yours, in which the grass springs of itself. 
Fundit Jiumo facilem victuin justissima tellus, doc- 
tor. There, I will back Jacintha to farm it for 
you, without spoiling the dinner. She has more 
intelligence than meadow land asks. In that 
case your income would be twelve thousand 
francs a year. The very idea makes you ill. 
Well, I withdraw it ; and there go seven thou- 
sand francs per annum ; but the three thousand 
francs I must and with force upon you for the 
young ladies’ sake; and justice’s and common 
sense’s, — do you consent ? but, monsieur, the 
baroness is ill,— she does not answer me ! her 
lips are colorless ! Oh, what have I done ? I 
I have killed her by my hrusquerie." 

“It is nothing my child,” said the baroness, 
faintly : “ too much trouble, — too much grief,” 
— and she was sinking back in her chair, but 
Laure’s arm was already supporting her, and 
Josephine holding salts to her. 

“It is fatigue,” said the doctor. “The bar- 
oness should have retired to rest earlier, after 
so trying a day.” 

“ ile is right, my children. At my age ladies 
can not defy their medical adviser with impuni- 
ty. Your arm, my youngest,” said she; and 
she retired slowly, leaning upon Laure. 

This little shade of preference was a comfort 
to Laure after the short-lived differences of the 
day ; and Josephine it would seem did not think 
it quite accidental, for she resisted her desire to 
come on her mother’s other side, and only went 
slowly before them with the light. 

On the young ladies’ return they Avcrc beset 
with anxious inquiries by Edouard. St. Aubin 
interrupted them. 

“They will not tell you the truth,” said he, 
“ perhaps they do not even know it. It is part- 
ly fatigue, partly worry ; but these would not 
kill her so fast as they are doing, — if — if — her 
food was more generous — more — more nutri- 
tious !” and the doctor groaned. 

“ Oh, doctor,” cried Laure, “ we give her the 
best we have.” 

“ I know you do, little angel, but you give her 
delicacies, — she wants meat ; you give her 
spiced and perfumed slops, — she wants the es- 
sence of soup ; and what are grapes and apples 
and pears and peaches ? — water : what are 
jellies? — sticky water, water and glue, but 
not fibre : what are salads ? — water : what are 
nearly all vegetables? ninety-six parts in the 
hundred water ; this has been lately proved by 
analysis in Paris, by a friend of mine. Nature 
is very cunning, she disguises water with a hun- 
dred delicious flavors ; and then we call it food. 
Farina and flesh, those two are food : the rest 
are w'atcr, air, nothing. The baroness is at an 
age when people ought to eat little at a time, 
but often, and only sovereign food.” 

“ She shall have it from this day,” cried Edou- 
ard. “ Let us conspire.” 

“Oh yes,” cried Laure, “let us conspire!” 

“Let us be kinder to her than she will ever 
be to herself. You saw how prompt she was to 
oppose my plans for baffling her enemies ? Let 
us act without her knowledge.” 

“ But how ?” 

“ Let me see. First let us think of her health.” 

“ Oh yes! that first of all.” 

“ Ah ! thank you, Edouard,” cried Josephine. 


“Well, then we must begin thus. One of 
you young ladies must ask to be allowed to man- 
age the household matters. Y^ou can say you 
wish to prepare yourself for the day when you 
shall yourself be mistress of an establishment. 
Perhaps, Mademoiselle Laure, you would make 
the proposal ?” 

“ Me ! I shall never be mistress of an estab- 
lishment,” said Laure, dolefull}’’ and pettishly. 
She added, in quite a different key, “ I do not 
mean to : I would not for the world.” 

“ What a violent disclaimer,” said Josephine : 
“it will be best for me to make the proposal. 
I will be apparent mistress of the house, but as 
Laure rules me in all things, she will be the 
real mistress. Will that meet my friend’s views?” 

“ Provided she can be got to obey me,” was 
Edouard’s answer. “ May I ask for another 
candle ?” The bell was rung. “ Another can- 
dle, Jacintha.’’ 

Meantime, Edouard, too eager to wait for any 
thing long, took out of his pocket a map, and 
spread it all over the table : Jacintha came in, 
and, being tormented with curiosity, took a long 
time lighting the candle, with a face made stol- 
id for the occasion. 

“ Now you all know what this is a map of?” 

“No!” said Laure, “it is not France; but 
what country it is I don’t know.” 

“Oh fie! Jacintha knows, I’ll be bound. 
What map is this, Jacintha?” 

“It is Italy,” replied Jacintha, firmly, and 
without any of that hesitation which in some 
minds accompanies entire ignorance of a sub- 
ject. 

Edouard groaned. 

“ Well, I did think she would have known 
Beaurepaire when she saw it.” 

Jacintha gave an incredulous toss of her head. 

“How can it be Beaurepaire? Beaurepaire 
is in Brittany, and this country is bigger than 
Brittany. Brittany is down stairs.” 

“ Ah !” cried Laure, “ here is the chateau !” 

“ Saints preserve us, so it is, mademoiselle, I 
declare. And here is the park, and two ladies 
walking in it, but I don’t see monsieur ; never- 
theless he is as often there as you are, mesde- 
moiselles,” said Jacintha, demurely. 

“What an unfortunate omission !” 

“I am glad you think so; it is easily sup- 
plied,” and with his pencil he rapidly inserted 
a male figure walking with the ladies, and its 
body paying them a world of obsequious atten- 
tion. 

Jacintha retired with a grin. 

The map was warmly admired. 

“ Oh, I used always to get a prize for them 
at the Polytechnic.” 

“And so beautifully colored: but what are 
all these names?” said Josei)hine, “the Virgin’s 
Coppice? I never heard of that.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” cried Edouard, “ she never hoard 
of the Virgin’s Coppice. What is it ? Why, 
it is a sort of marsh : I shot a brace of snipes in 
it the other day.” 

“But you have not painted any trees on it to 
show it is a coppice.” 

“Trees? there is not a tree in it, and has not 
been this two or three hundred years.” 

“ Then why do we call it a coppice still ?” 

“ I don’t know : all I know is, there arc snipes 
in it, — no small virtue.” 


WHITE LIES. 


G3 


Laure. “ The Deer Park, — I never heard of 
that.” 

Edouard (lifting up his hands). “ They don’t 
know their own fields : the Deer Park is a 
ploughed field not far from Dard’s house, whicli 
you may behold. Now give me your attention.” 
The young man then showed them the home- 
steads of the several tenants, and pointed out 
the fields that belonged to each farm, and the 
very character of the soil of each field. 

They gazed at him in half-stupefied wonder, 
and at the mass and precision of his knowledge 
on a subject where they were not only profound- 
ly ignorant, but had not even deemed knowledge 
accessible to ladies and gentlemen. He con- 
cluded by assuring them that he had carefully 
surveyed and valued every field on the estate, 
and that the farms were let full forty per cent 
below' their value. 

“ Now’, mesdemoiselles, your mother has a 
claim upon the estate for her jointure, but you 
are the true pro])rietors.” 

“ Are we?” 

“Oh, Gracious Heavens! they did not even 
know who their estate belonged to. Well, give 
me an authority, on this paper, to act as your 
agent, or we shall never get our forty per cent. 
Neither you nor your mother are any match for 
these sheep-faced rustics, — leeches who have 
been sucking your blood this fifty years, — crying 
hyenas that have been moaning and whining be- 
cause they could not gnaw your bones as w’ell.” 

“My friend,” said Josephine, “I would do 
this with pleasure, but mamma would be so hurt, 
it is impossible.” 

“Mademoiselle — Josephine — you saw how 
your mother received my proposals for her good 
and yours. Consider, I am strong enough to 
defeat your enemies, provided I have none but 
enemies to battle ; but if I am to fight the bar- 
oness, and her prejudices, as well as Perrin and 
the tenants, then failure is certain, and I w’ash 
my hands of it.” 

“But consider, impetuous boy, w’e can not 
defy our mother, whom we love so.” 

“Defy her? no! But you need not go and 
tell her every thing you do.” 

“ Certainly not. You know, doctor, we kept 
from her Bonard’s threat till the danger seemed 
passed.” 

“ And w'e did well,” cried Laure ; “ think if 
she had known what W’as hanging over her all 
that time !” 

“What do you say, doctor?” asked Joseph- 
ine. 

“I don’t know', my dear. It is a hard alter- 
native. As a general rule I don’t like decep- 
tion.” 

“ I do not propose deception,” said the young 
man, blushing; “only a wdse reticence; and 
without this reticence, this reserve, even my plan 
for improving her diet must fail.” 

“In that case I take the sin of reticence on. 
me. I claim the post of honor !” cried Laure, 
with great agitation and glistening eyes. 

“I consent!” exclaimed Josephine; “this 
child, so young, so pure, can not be w'rong.” 

“All I know is,” said the doctor, “that the 
more roast meat she has, and the less worry, the 
longer my poor friend will live.” 

“ Oh, give me the paper, Edouard, w'e will both 
authorize you, and thank you for letting us.” 


“Yes! yes! and w’e W’ill do wdiatever he ad- 
vises us,” cried Laure; “that is, you shall, — 
I’ll see about it.” 

“And oh doctor,” said Josephine, “wdiat a 
comfort it is to have some one about us who has 
energy and decision and, above all, takes the 
command!” 

The next day Edouard came into the kitchen 
and adopted Jacintha into the conspiracy : con- 
sulted her how to smuggle nutriment into the 
baroness, and bar the tenants from all access to 
her for a while. He told her why. 

^’■Canaille of tenants,” she cried, “this then 
has been your game all these years: good, — 
wait till the next of you comes here pulling a 
long face, crocodiles: I’ll tell you my mind!” 

“ No ! no ! any thing but that : they would 
say it is Jacintha wdio keeps us from the baron- 
ess, and they would write to her or try a dozen 
artifices to gain her ear.” 

“ You are rigb.t, my son : I W'as stupid ; no, it 
shall be diamond cut diamond. I’ll meet them 
with a face as smooth as their ow’n, and say to 
them — what shall I say to the canaille f' 

‘ ‘ Say the baroness in her failing state sees no 
one on business ; say also that she has made 
over the control of the property to her daughters 
and their agent; add that — ahem — she is dy- 
ing !” 

“ Yes ! that is the best of all to say ; but sta}', 
no, — it is not lucky. Perhaps in that case she 
will die, and I shall have killed — ” 

“Stuff! people don’t die to make other peo- 
ple’s w’ords good, that w'ould be too stupid : cut 
me forty bunches of grapes.” 

Jacintha looked rueful. 

“ My dear, it is not for me to deny you.” 

“I don’t ask you to deny me.” 

“ Well, but forty bunches I” 

“Order from the mistress!” said the young 
man, pompously drawing out a paper. 

It ran thus ; 

Jacintha, do whatever Monsieur Riviere bids 
you! Josephine de Beaurepaire.” 

“Well, to be sure. I say, you have not lost 
much time, my young monsieur. At least tell 
me wliat you w'ant forty bunches of grapes for?” 

Before he could answer came a clatter, and a 
figure hopped in with a crutch. 

“Why, Dard ! a sight of you is good for sore 
eyes. Who w’ould have thought you could have 
got so far as this !” 

“I am going farther than this. I am going 
dowm to the towm to sell your grapes and such 
like belly vengeance, and bring back grub, — 
aha !” 

“ Oh, that is the game, is it, my lads ?” cried 
Jacintha. 

“That, and no other,” replied Dard. 

“If the baroness comes to hear of it, won’t 
you catch it, that is all !” 

“ But she never will hear of it, unless you tell 
her.” 

“Oh, I sha’n’t tell her. I durstn’t. She 
Avould faint away. Here is a dow'n-come. Sell- 
ing our fruit. Ah ! well-a-day. What is Beau- 
repaire coming to !” 

“ Will you go and cut them ?” cried Riviere, 
stamping with impatience. 


G4 V 

“ Well, I am going,” snapped Jacintha. 

Dard had got a little cart outside, and his 
grandmother’s jackass. 

“ Citizen, if you will bring the hampers out of 
my cart into the garden, I will help her cut the 
fruit ; it is all I am fit for at present. I am no 
longer a man. Behold me a robin-redbreast, 
hopping about!” 

“We may as well be killed for a sheep as a 
lamb,” said Jacintha, dolefully. “ I have pulled 
a few dozen peaches. It is a highway robbery ; 
they would have rotted on the tree. Oh, Dard ! 
you won’t ever let the folks know where they 
come from ?” 

“No, no ! he has got his lessons from me.” 

“ That is a different thing : what would they 
say if they knew ? Why, that we are at our last 
gasp ! Selling our very fruit off our walls and 
the corner of her apron was lifted to her eye. 

“You great baby,” cried Edouard; “don’t 
you see this is the beginning of common sense, 
and proper economy, and will end in riches?” 

Dard shrugged his shoulders. 

“Keason is too good a thing to waste ; let her 
snivel !” 

“Now, Dard,” cried Jacintha, cheerfully, 

“ what I want most is some lard, some butter, 
some meal, a piece of veal, a small joint of mut- 
ton, and a bit of beef for soup ; but a little cho- 
colate would not be amiss, our potatoes are very 
short, and you can bring up some white beans, 
if you see any good ones.” 

“ Nothing more than that wanted ?” inquired 
Dard. 

“ Yes. Was I mad ? Coffee is wanted most 
dismally.” 

“Buy it if you dare!” cried Riviere. “No, 
Dard, that is my affair, and mine alone.” 

Presently there w'as a fresh anxiety. Dard 
would be recognized, and, by him, the folk would 
know out of what garden came his merchandise. 

“ All is provided for,” said Edouard. “ Dard, 
embellish thyself.” 

Dard drew out of his pocket a beard and put 
it on. 

“ Is he Dard now ?” 

“ My faith no !” 

“ Is he even human?” 

“Not too much, so, ha! ha! — well, Beaure- 
paire is alive since you came into it, my gailUardr 

“ Now you know,” said Dard, “ if I am to do 
this little job to-day, I must start.” 

“Who keeps you?” was the reply. 

Thus these two loved. 

Edouard had no sooner embellished, primed, 
and started Dard, by fencing with a pointed 
stick at his jackass, which like a ship was a good 
traveller but a coy starter, than he went round 
to all the tenants with St. Aubin. He showed 
them his authority, and offered them leases at 
forty per cent, advance on the present rent. They 
refused, to a man. 

It came out that most of them had been about 
to propose a reduction, but had forborne out of 
good feeling towards the baroness. And that 
same feeling would perhaps give them the cour- 
age to go on under the burden a year or two 
longer, but as for advancing the rent a sou, 
never ! ! 

Others could not be got to take a grave view 
of so merry a proposal. They were all good- 
humor and jokes, with satire underneath, at the 


LIES. 

jolly audacity of talking of raising the Beaure- 
paire rents : with one and all Riviere was short 
and clear. 

“There is my card: the leases await you at 
my house : you must come and sign in three 
days !” 

“And if I should happen not to come nor 
sign either, my little monsieur ?” 

“In that case a writ of ejectment will be 
served on you before sunset of the third day. 
Adieu !” 

“ All the better for me,” sang out one as 
Edouard retired. 

The doctor was much discouraged. 

“This univeral consent surely goes to prove-—” 

“That they have a common interest in de- 
ceiving.” 

‘ ‘ You are very young to think so ill of men.” 

“I have been months in a government office. 
Ah ! monsieur, I have seen men too near : I left 
the Polytechnic with illusions about honesty and 
sincerity among men, — puff they are gone.” 

“Are they? then accursed be the hour you 
ever saw a government office.” 

“No, no: but for my experience under gov- 
ernment I should not be so sharp, and if I was 
not shai-p I could not serve our sacred cause.” 

“ Still at your age to have lost all confidence 
in men and women !” 

“ I beg your pardon,” cried the misanthropist, | 
eagerly, “ not in women : they have none of the | 
vices of men ; no selfishness, no heartlessness. I 
see in them some little tendency to fib, — I mean 
in the uneducated ones ! but dear me, their fibs are 
so innocent. Women ! ! we men are not worthy 
to share the earth with them.” j 

The doctor smiled. For the last thirty or 
forty years he had no longer been able to see this J 
prodigious difference between the sexes. 

“ And can all these honest male faces be de- 
ceiving us ?” asked he. 

“ What ? because they are round ! I too used 
to picture to myself a sharper with a sharp face 
— eyes close together — foxy : but I soon found 
your true Tartuffe is the round-visaged or square- = 
faced fellow. He seems a lump of candor : he 
is a razor keen and remorseless. There are no 
better actors in the Tliedb-e Frangais than these 
frank peasants. You will see. Good-bye ; I 
must run to the town for drafts of leases. Mocha 
coffee, and writs of ejectment.” 

There were in the little town in question two 
notaries, Perrin and Picard, on good terms with 
each other outwardly. 

Though young and impetuous, and subject to 
gusts of vanity, Edouard was not so shallow as to 
despise an enemy of whom he knew nothing but 
that ho was a lawyer. No. He said to himself : 

“ We have a notary against us. I must play a 
notary.” He went to Picard, and began by re- 
questing him to draw up seven agreements for 
leases, and to have ready three or four writs of 
ejectment. Having thus propitiated the notary 
by doing actual business with him, he began 
cautiously to hint at the other notary’s enmity to 
Beaurepaire. 

“You surprise me,” said Picard. “I really 
think you must be mistaken. Monsieur Perrin 
owes all to that family. It was the baron who 
launched him. How often have I seen him, 
when a boj’-, hold the baron’s horse, and be re- 
tvarded by a silver coin. Oh no, Monsieur Per- 


WHITE LIES. 


rin is a man that bears a fair character : I can 
not believe this of liiin.” 

Tills defense of his competitor looked so like 
master asp in his basket of figs, that Edonard 
hesitated no longer, but gave iiirn the general fea- 
tures of the case, and went by rapid gradations 
into a towering passion. 

Picard proposed to him to be cool. 

“ I can not,” said he, “enter into your feud 
with Perrin, for the best of all reasons : I do 
business v.'ith him.” 

Edouard looked blank. 

“He is also a respectable man.” 

Edouard looked blanker. 

“But, on the other hand, you are now my 
client, monsieur, and he is not my client. You 
understand ?” 

“Perfectly,” said Edouard. “You are an 
honest man,” he cried, not stopping to pick his 
epithets, and seized the notary’s hand, and shook 
it : it let itself be shaken, and was in that and 
other respects like cold jelly. Its owner invited 
him to tell the whole story. 

“Never have any reserves with your notary,” 
said he, severely ; “ that is the grand folly of 
clients ; and then they eome and blame us if we 
make a mistake ; they forget that it is they who 
mislead us.” 

On this theme he rose to tepid. He dwelt 
on this abominable practice of clients, till Edon- 
ard found out that lawyers are the worst-used 
people living. 

But who is not that? 

They put their heads together, and Edouard 
found what an advantage his new friend’s cool- 
ness and command of temper gave him, and he 
vow’ed to ally his own energy to the notary’s 
cold blood. 

When he was gone, Picard went into his clerk’s 
room and gave him an order to draw up agree- 
ments for leases, leaving blanks for the names : 
then he added 

“ What do you think ? The rascal is schem- 
ing to get hold of Beaurepaire now.” 

“Is it possible? But it is just like him,” said 
the clerk. 

“But I’ll put a spoke in his wheel,’’ said Pi- 
card. 

Josephine was now household queen of Beau- 
repaire ; Laure, viceroy over her. This young 
lady w'as born to command, and Nature prevailed 
over seniority. Therein Nature was rewarded by 
the approbation, the warm approbation, of Mon- 
sieur Edouard Riviere. That young statesman 
elected himself prime minister to the lady lieu- 
tenant ; and so great was his deference to her 
judgment, even on points where she was unfath- 
omably ignorant, that he was forever seeking 
grave conferences with her. 

The leading maxim v/ith them all was that 
the baroness was on no account to be worried or 
alarmed, nor her prejudices shocked : where these 
stood between her own comfort and her friend’s 
plans for that comfort, the governing powers 
made a little detour and evaded collisions with 
them. 

For instance, the baroness would never have 
consented to sell a Beaurepaire grape. She would 
have starved sooner, or lived on the grapes; if 
diarrhccaing can be called living. So when she 
demanded of Queen Josc[)hinc how there came 
such an influx of beef, mutton, and veal into the 


Go 

chateau. Lieutenant Laure explained that Edou- 
ard had begged .Josephine to give him some 
fruit that was rotting on the walls, and she had 
consented. 

“It seems, mamma, that these government 
oflicers interchange civilities with the tradespeo- 
ple. So he made presents of fruit to those he 
deals with, and they sent him in return — he ! he ! 
— specimens of their several arts. And he never 
dines at home now, but always here. So he 
sent them over, and do you know I think it is 
as well he did, for that boy eats like a wolf, 
doesn’t he, Josephine?” 

“Yes, love,” said Josephine. “What did 
you say, dear? I was full of my thoughts, my 
forebodings.” 

“Then what right had you to say ‘yes’ ?” 

“Because it was you who appealed to me, my 
sister.” 

“No, no, no ! it is your nature to say the sil- 
liest of words, — that is why.” 

The baroness took no notice of this by-talk. 

“I should not like him not to have enough,” 
said she with some hesitation. 

In short Doctors Laure and Josephine so gild- 
ed the meat pills that the baroness swallowed 
them, and vvas none the worse for them, actual- 

ly ! 

Anoher day dead chickens flooded the larder. 

“ Oh, mamma, come and see what the tenants 
have sent us !” 

“ The good souls ! and these are the people 
whose rents he talked of raising.” 

“Who minds what he says, mamma? — a 
young madman.” 

Atiother fine day it rained eggs. These too 
were fathered upon the tenants. 

Hope then to escape false accusations ! ! 

In these and many other ways they beguiled 
the old lady for her good. The baroness was 
not to see or hear any thing but what she would 
like to see and hear. 

“Do not deceive her unnecessarily. But de- 
ceive her rather than thwart or vex her.” 

This was the leading maxim of the new queen- 
craft, and all played their part to perfection, — 
none better than Jacintha, who, besides a ready 
invention and an oily tongue, possessed in an 
eminent degree the vultus clausus of the Latins, 
— volto sciolto of their descendants : in English, 
a close face. And, though they entered on this 
game with hesitation, yet they soon warmed in 
it. The new guile was charming. To defraud 
a beloved one of discomfort, — to cheat her into 
a good opinion of all she wished to think well 
of, — to throw a veil, a silver tissue of innocent 
fibs, between her and trouble,— to smuggle sov- 
ereign food into her mouth and more sovereign 
hope into her heart. Pious frauds ! and you 
know many a holy man has justified these in 
writings dedicated to the Church, and practised 
them for the love of God and the good of man. 

The baroness’s health, strength, and spirits 
improved visibly. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

On the third day a tenant called on Riviere, 
emmed and hawed, and prepared to draw dis- 
\nt, but conv'erging lines of circumvallation 
■)und th.c subject '■f Rent. 


G6 


WHITE LIES. 


Riviere cut tlie process short. 

“I am a public man, and have no time to 
waste in verbiage. On that table is a seven 
years’ lease, with blanks ; you can sign it at 
forty per cent, increased rent, or, by paying a bo- 
nus of one thousand francs, at thirty per cent.” 

The man attempted to remonstrate. 

Riviere cut him dead short this time. 

The farmer then lowered his voice. 

“ I have got a thousand francs in my pock- 
et,” said he. 

“Oh, you prefer the thirty i)er cent, and the 
bonus. Very well.” 

“ That is not what I mean. You and I might 
do better than that. We will say nothing about 
a bonus ; you shall clap on ten i)er cent., to show 
your zeal to the landlord, and ihis," lowering 
his voice, “will be for you, and no questions 
asked.” 

Riviere’s first impulse was to hit him ; the 
next was to laugh at him, which he accordingly 
did. 

“My man,” said he, “you must be very 
much in love with dishonesty. Now listen : if 
I report that little proposal of yours at Bcaure- 
paire, you will never get a lease upon any 
terms.” 

“But you won’t ! you won’t !” 

“ Won’t 1 ? if you don’t come to book in five 
minutes, I will !” 

“ Give me ten, and I will see about it.” 

“Humph! I don’t see what you want with 
ten minutes — but take them.” 

The farmer retired, and very soon after voices 
were head and heavy feet, and in came our farm- 
ers. 

Riviere grinned. No. 1 had been secretly a 
deputation. The little lot had been all under 
the window, waiting till the agent sliould have 
taken the bribe, and made them all right with 
Beaurepaire. But when No. 1 came down with 
his hair standing on end, to tell them that he 
had fallen in with a monster, a being unknown, 
fabulous, incredible, an agent that would not 
swindle his master, they succumbed as the bra- 
vest spirits must, even Macbeth, before the super- 
natural. 

They came up stairs, and sorrowfully knuck- 
led down ; only No. 1 put in a hope that they 
were not to be treated worse than those who had 
not come to him at all. 

“ Certainly not.” 

“Because two or three are gone to the cha- 
teau.” 

“ They shall gain nothing by that.” 

“But lue said why plague the baroness: she 
is old. She is at death’s door. Lastly she has 
got an honest agent; let us go to him.” 

N. B — they had all been at the chateau ; but 
Jacintha had fooled the lot. 

Riviere opened a door and beckoned. Out 
popped M. Picard’s clerk, brisk and smiling. 

“You have got the writs in your pocket.” 

“Seven of them, monsieur.” 

The farmers looked at one another. 

“The moment we have settled these leases, 
run up to the chateau, and, if you catch any farm- 
ers prowling about, serve them — he ! he ! Now, 
messieurs.” 

A rustling of parchments, a crushing of pens 
to death on the table to sec what they would 
stand on paper, a putting out of tongues to write ! 


well, a writing ill, a looking at the work after 
it was done, a wrenching out of bags of silver 
' from the breeches-pocket like molars from the 
jaw's, a sighing, a making of bows, a clattering 
down the stair, a dying away of feet and voices, 
and nothing was left but the four money-bags 
dispersed at intervals over the floor, and the 
statesman dancing a Saraband among them. 

^ 

CHAPTER XV. 

AVildish conduct. But sixty years ago when 
a man was a boy he was young. And, besides, 
the gaillard was not born in the isle of fogs. 

Such relaxations are brief with busy men. In 
another five minutes he was off to the chateau. 
He went the shortest way across the park, and, 
as he drew near the little gate, lo ! the Pleasance 
was full of people. He was soon among them. 
Besides the doctor and the two young ladies 
there were three farmers and two farmers’ wives. 
Failing in their attempts to see the baroness, and 
believing Jacintha’s story that she never came 
down stairs, but employed herself on the second 
floor in pious offices and in departing this life, 
they had been sore puzzled what to do ; but, 
catching a sight of the young ladies going out 
for a walk, they had boldly rushed into the Pleas- 
ance and intercepted them, and told them the 
tale of their wrongs so glibly and with such heart- 
iness and uniformity of opinion, and in tones so 
mellow and convincing, that both the ladies and 
the doctor inclined to their view. 

“ We will talk to Monsieur Riviere,” said Jo- 
sephine, kindly : “ah! here he is.” 

“ Yes, here I am. I thought I should find 
you here, good people. Well, have you piped 
your tune ? are you overburdened with rent al- 
ready ? is your part of the estate cold and sour, 
and docs it lie low, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., 
eh ?” 

“Yes,” cried Laure, “ they have. La!” 

“And it is too true, monsieur.” 

Chorus. “Too true.” 

Jacques Pirot,” cried Edouard, sternly, “ last 
market-day you broke a bottle of wine, I use 
your own phrase, with the man who bought your 
calves.” 

“Well, monsieur, was that a sin?” 

“ When you had broken that, and spilled the 
wine into your gullet, you broke another.” 

“ And that is what brings you home from 
market the face red and the tongue stuttering,” 
cackled Pirot’s wife there present. 

“Silence !” cried Edouard. “ When the wine 
is in, the truth comes out, even of a farmer. 
You bragged that Grapinet had offered you fif- 
teen hundred francs to change farms with him, 
and that you had laughed in his face.” 

“ Do not believe it, mademoiselle ; it is not 
true.” 

“Liar! I heard you. You too were there, 
Rennacon, drunk and truthful,— two events that 
happen to you once a week,— thanks to Bacchus 
not to Rennacon. You boasted thatBraconnier 
had offered to change with you and give you 
two thousand francs.” 

“I lied! I lied!” cried Rennacon, eagerly. 

“Unjust to thyself! it was thy half-hour* for 
speaking the truth.” 


WHITE LIES. 


67 


“ Now, mademoiselle, deign to cast your eyes 
on these parchments. These are leases. Grap- 
inet and Pepin and Braconnier have just signed ; 
their rent is advanced thirty per cent.” 

General exclamation of the doctor and ladies. 

Looks of surprise and dismay from the others. 

“For which favor — ” 

“He calls that a favor.” 

“They have just paid me one thousand francs 
apiece. You, by your own showing, can pay me 
tw'O thousand five hundred francs instead of a 
thousand. Now I wdll make a bargain with you. 
Sign similar leases here in three minutes, and I 
will let you off for one thousand francs each ; 
hesitate, and I will have two thousand francs.” 

“ I will not sign at all, for one.” 

“Nor 1.” 

“Nor I.” 

Chorus of women : 

“We will sign away our lives sooner.” 

Edouard shouted ; 

“ Jacintha, — Jacintha !” 

Jacintha appeared with suspicious celerity, 
the distance from the kitchen to the Pleasance 
considered. 

“Fetch me a good pen and some ink.” 

“But they say they will not sign,” said Laure. 

“They will sign, mademoiselle. Monsieur 
Chose, a])proach, — serve the ejectments.” 

The clerk, who had just arrived, but stood 
aloof, drew out three slips of stamped paper, and 
made three steps forward. 

The effect was like a pistol presented at each 
head. The whole party set up their throats : 

“ Wait a moment, for Heaven’s sake ! Made- 
moiselle, it is for you to speak. This is to usurp 
your place. Do not let them persecute honest 
men, who have paid their rent faithfully they 
and their forbears to you and yours in quiet times 
and troubled times, in good harvests and bad 
harv’ests.” 

“Messieurs,” replied Josephine, “M. Riviere, 
my good friend, has deigned to act as our agent. 
It would be little delicate on my part were I,, 
after the trouble he has taken, to interfere with 
his proceedings. Settle then this affair with him, 
who appears to understand your sentiments, 
whereas my sister and I, we do not understand 
you.” And she withdrew quietly a little way, 
like an angel gently evading moral pitch. 

“Are you satisfied ? is every door shut ? here 
is Jacintha! In one word, will you sign or will 
you not sign ?” 

Jacintha, with characteristic promptitude, took 
Riviere’s part, without knowing what it was 
about. 

“Oh, they will sign it fast enough,” she cried. 
“ Come to the scratch, my masters 1” cried she, 
cheerfully, and held out a pen. 

“ Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! inon Dieu ! but where 
are we to find a thousand francs ?” cried one. 

Mon Dieu! mon Dien! vion Dieu! in your 
left-hand breeches-pocket,” said Riviere, laugh- 
ing. 

“ I see it bulge,” screamed Jacintha. 

Three hands went by a foolish impulse to three 
brceches-pockets, to hide the swelling. It was 
too late. 

“ yl//ons .'” cried Jacintha, like a merry trump- 
et, “come forth, five-franc pieces!” 

“ It is a sorcerer then !” cried one of the wom- 
en. 


“No, madame,” said Riviere, politely, ^Mt'is 
only an observer. You left your dens armed at 
all points. The first game was to come here and 
throw dust in mademoiselle’s eyes. Had you 
failed there, the thousand francs was to bribe me 
to swindle my principals.” 

“ Decidedly he is a sorcerer ! My good mon- 
sieur, say no more. We sign.” 

“They sign,” said the doctor, “it is incredi- 
ble.” And he joined the ladies, who were walk- 
ing slowly up and down the Pleasance, abstain- 
ing upon a principle of delicacy from interfering 
with Edouard, but, as may well be supposed, 
keenly though furtively attentive. 

When the farmers had signed. Riviere signed 
the duplicates. 

“ Are we not to have your name to it, made- 
moiselle?” asked a farmer. 

Josephine moved towards Riviere, thinking he 
might require her. 

“No!” he cried, haughtily, “/havegother 
name on this authority, but my name is good 
enough for you. She shall not sign, and you 
shall not speak to her. You may look at her : 
that is no small thing. Good ! you have looked 
at her. Now decamp, rogues and jades.” 

They went off muttering. They felt deeply 
wronged. Each a shade more so than the other. 
Rcnnacon vented the general sentiment of ill 
usage thus : 

“ Cursed be interlopers ! Another year or two 
and I should have put aside enough to buy my 
farm : it will take me ten years at this rate.” 

“Come, Jacintha, hold your apron for the 
bags ; lock them in one of your cupboards. 
Away with you.” 

Then his friends all came round Edouard, and 
shook his hand warmly, and thanked him with 
glistening eyes again and again, Laure and all. 

Now this young gentleman was so formed that, 
if one did not see his merit, he swelled with 
bumptiousness like a peacock, but if one praised 
him too much, straightway he compared himself 
with his beau ideal, his model, say the Chevalier 
Bayard, and turned modest and shame-faced : 
so now he hung his head and stammered as they 
showered praise and admiration on him. And 
this was pleasing and pretty by contrast with his 
late tremendous arrogance and rudeness. 

It struck them all. 

“No more words,” said Josephine, “they 
make him blush. I crown him. Run, Laure, 
and bring me some bay leaves.” 

“No! mesdemoiselles ! no! there is more 
work to be done before I dare triumph. I must 
take your money down to tbe town, and pay that 
creditor off. Then my heart will be at ease 
about you all, and then I confess I should like to 
wear a crown — for half an hour.” 

“Come back to supper, Edouard, and wear 
it.” 

“ Oh, thank you.” 

“There he goes without being measured, the 
giddy child. Take off your liat, monsieur.” 

Then there Avas a mysterious gliding of soft 
palms and delicate fingers about his brow and 
head, and the latter was announced to be meas- 
ured. And, O reader, what botheration might 
be saved if every man was measured before a 
crown was clapped on him ! He is for a 
hat. 


G8 


WHITE LIES. 


“They can measure the outside,” said the 
doctor, saucily ; “ their art goes so far.’’ 

Edouard ran off. 

“lie quits us every minute,” said Laure to 
Josephine; “that is why I detest him. ” 

“You don’t detest him,” objected the doctor, 
as gravely as if he was announcing a fact in 
physics. 

“That is why I like him, then,” said sauce- 
box. 

Edouard ran to Jacintha for two out of the 
three money-bags, took them home, converted 
the six thousand francs into bank paper (not as- 
signats), and pelted down to the town. 

He went at once to his notary to ask him what 
forms were to be complied with in discharging 
the creditor. To this question, asked with ea- 
gerness and agitation, the notary answered with 
perfect coolness : 

“ The thing to do noiv is to take the money to 
the mayor. Perhaps yon had better go to him 
at once : on your return I have something to say 
to you.” 

Edouard ran to the Mairie ; in front of it he 
found some forty or fifty idlers collected, and 
gaping at a placard on the wall. 

Edouard’s eyes followed theirs carelessly, and 
saw a sight that turned him cold, and took the 
])ith out of his body. 

A great staring notice, the paste behind which 
was scarce dry, glared him in the face. 

“For sale. The lands of Beadrepaire, 

WITH THE CHATIOAD AND OTHER THE BUILDINGS 
MESSUAGES AND TENEMENTS. 

“ At the requisition of Jacques Bonard, 

CREDITOR. BY ORDER OF THE DIRECTORY. 

“ Arm AND, Mayor.” 

This was the brightest afternoon Beaurepaire 
had seen for years. These young women, whose 
lives had so few pleasures, denied themselves the 
luxury of telling their mother the family tri- 
umph. Unselfish and innocent, they kept so sa- 
cred a pleasure for their friend. 

But, though their words were guarded, their 
bird-like notes and bright glances were free, and 
chirped and beamed in tune with their hearts. 
Their very breath was perfumed gayety and hope. 

And the baroness felt herself breathing a light- 
er, brighter, and more musical air. She said: 
“Are better days in store, my children? For 
to-day, I know not how or why, the cloud seems 
less heavy on us all.” 

“So it does, mamma,” cried Laure. “I smile 
at Josephine, and Josephine smiles at me, and 
neither of us have the least idea why, — have we, 
my elder? and here is your coffee, dear, dear 
mamma.” 

“Good! and what an aroma this has too, to- 
day; and a flavor ! if this is from Arabia, what 
I have been drinking for months must have been 
a nearer neighbor, I think.” 

“Let me taste, mamma,” said Laure. She 
tasted and was thunderstruck. She took occa- 
sion to draw Josephine into the dark part of the 
room. “Some one has been drugging my cof- 
— it tastes of Mocha, — was it you, love? — 
traitress, I mean? — tell me, dear.” 

“No. Guess.” 

“ That is enough, the imp ! ! I’ll.” 

“ I would,” replied Josephine. “ lie said to 


me, ‘ Mademoiselle Laure deceives her mother : 
let us deceive her.' I told him 1 would betray 
him, and I have kept my word.” 

“Yes, after cheating me: double traitress!! 
kiss me, quick ! quick!!” 

Supper was ready. No Edouard. 

His crown of bay leaves was on the table : but 
no Edouard. They were beginning to fear he 
would not come at all, when he arrived in haste, 
and sank into a chair, fatigued partly by a long 
day’s work, partly by the emotions he had passed 
through. Through all this peeped an air of self- 
content. 

“Forgive me, madame — it has been a long 
day.” 

“ Repose yourself, monsieur,” said the baron- 
ess, ceremoniously. She was not best pleased at 
his making himself so at home. “ Or rather let 
us offer you something to restore you.” 

“ Nothing, madame, but a tumbler of wine with 
a little water — thank you, madame. Mesdames, 
great events have occurred since I left you.” 

“ Oh, tell ! tell !” Eyes bright as sword-blades 
in the sun with interest and curiosity were fast- 
ened on him, and their lovely proprietors held 
their breath to hear him. 

He glanced round with secret satisfaction, 
paused, relished their curiosity, and then began 
his story. 

He told them how he rode down to the town, 
and went to his notary : here he explained that, 
being at war with a notary, he had been com- 
pelled in common prudence to enlist a notary: 
and his notary had sent him to the Mairie, and 
there he had seen a placard offering the chateau 
and lands of Beaurepairc for sale. 

“0 Heaven! Oh, Edouard !” 

“ Be calm — there, I meant to keep you a mo- 
ment or two in suspense, but I have not the 
heart. I went into the Mairie : I saw the mayor : 
it was Bonard’s doing, set on, of course, by Per- 
rin : I paid your six thousand francs into the 
mayor’s hands for Bonard. Here, ladies, is the 
mayor’s receipt ; from that moment Beaurepaire 
was yours’again, and that accursed placard mine. 
I tore it down before all the crowd ; they cheered 
me.” 

“ Heaven bless them !” cried the doctor. 

^ “ Dard was there in his donkey cart : he put 
his cap on his crutch, and waved it in the air, and 
cried : ‘ Long live the bai-oness and the Demoi- 
selles Beaurepaire and they all joined — aha ! 
— well, as I made my way through the crowd, 
who should I run against but Perrin !” 

“The wretch.” 

“ The pieces of the placard were in my hand : 
I hurled them Avith all my force into the animal’s 
face.” 

“ Oh, you good boy I” 

“ It was the act of a young man.” 

“You are right, monsieur: I am almost sor- 
ry I did it.” 

“Monsieur Edouard,” cried the baroness, ris- 
ing, the tears in her eyes, “ I scarcely understand 
all you are doing, and have done for us : but this 
I comprehend, that you are a worthy 5 '’oung man ; 
and that I have not till now had the discernment 
to see all your value !” 

“Oh, madame, do not speak to me so: it 
makes me ashamed : let me continue my story.” 

“ Yes ! but first tell me, this six thousand 


WHITE LIES. 


G9 


francs — oh, how my heart beats ! Oh, my chil- 
dren, how near ruin we have been — Oh dear ! 
oh dear !” 

“Dear mamma, do not tremble : it is all our 
own, thanks to our guardian angel,” said Jo- 
sephine. “Edouard, I think our mother wishes 
to learn how we came to have so much money.” 

“ What, have you not told her?” 

“No ! Laure said you should have that pleas- 
ure : it was your right.” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! thank you. Mademoiselle Laure,” cried 
the young man, very warmly. “Madame, the 
tenants paid you seven thousand francs to-day 
for leases at a rent raised thirty per cent, from 
this day.” 

“ Lowered, my child, you mean.” 

“ No, thank you, raised.” 

“ Is it possible? — the good creatures ! !” 

“ Eh ? ah ! humph ! yes !” 

“But is it really true? Can this be true?” 

Jacintha holds a thousand francs at your dis- 
posal, madame, and this recei{)t is your voucher 
for the other six thousand ; and the leases signed 
are in the house.” 

“ And these are the people you had hard 
thoughts of, monsieur.” 

“ See how unjust I was ! ! !” 

“ Did they volunteer all this ?” 

“Not exactly. It was proposed to them, and 
within three days — ” 

“ They fell into it ?” 

“They fell into it.” 

“ May Heaven reward them !” 

“ Humph !” 

“As they deserve.” 

“Amen! amen!” 

“ Such actions do the heart good as well as 
the house. I *can not but bo affected by the 
sympathy of these humble people, who have 
k*^nown how to show their good feeling, and, may 
I venture to say, their gratitude.” 

“Call it by any fine name you please, madame ; 
they will not contradict you.” 

“Their gratitude, then, at a moment when it 
was so needed. After all, the world is not so 
ill. I seem to have gone back to the days of my 
youth, when such things were common. Ah ! 
how happy I am am ! and how much I thank 
you for it, my young friend.” 

Beviere hung his head. 

“ May I continue my story?” 

“ Oh yes,” cried Laure, “pray go on. I guess 
you went next to the honest notary.” 

“The what??! !” 

“ The notary that is on our side.” 

“ I did, and what do )'Ou think his news was ? 
That for two days past Perrin had been at him 
to lend him money upon Bcaurepnire. ” 

“ And he did not turn him out of the room ?” 

“ No ; he spoke him fair.” 

“But I thought he was our friend.” 

“ Nothing of the sort. He is our notary. Per- 
haps all the better servant for having no heart, 
and therefore no temper. He had been very 
civil to Perrin, had promised to try and get him 
the money, and so was keeping him from going 
elsewhere. Oh ! this glacier gave me wiser ad- 
vice than flesh and blood could have given. I 
am never five minutes with Picard, but I come 
away iced and wiser.” 

Lnvre. “ And wickeder.” 

Edouard Ovith sublime indiife fence). “ Clear- 


ly. He said, ‘ I have a hundred and twenty 
thousand francs : I will lend you them on Beau- 
repaire. Go to some other capitalist for a sim- 
ilar sum. The total will pay all the debts. Cap- 
italists will not refuse you : for, observe, this rise 
in tlie rents ])lus the six thousand francs you have 
paid off alters the face of the security and leaves 
a Ltir margin. Get the money Avhile I amuse 
Perrin with false hopes.’ Here was a stroke of 
policy beyond poor little Edouard Keviere to have 
invented. Notary cut notary ! ! So to-morrow 
I ride to Commandant Raynal for a week’s leave 
of absence, and the next day I ride to my uncle, 
and beg him to lend a hundred and twenty 
thousand francs on Beaurepaire. He can do it 
if he likes. Yet his estate is scarce half so large 
as yours, and not half so rich, but he has never 
let any one share it with him. ‘I’ll have no go- 
between,’ says he, ‘ to impoverish us both.’ ” 

“ Both whom ?” 

“ Self and soil — ha! ha! ‘ The soil is always 
grateful,’ says my uncle — ‘ makes you a return in 
exact proportion to what you bestow on it in the 
way of manure and labor — men don’t.’ Says he, 

‘ the man that has got one hand in your pocket 
shakes the other fist in your face ; the man that 
has got both hands in your pocket spits in your 
face.’ Asking excuse of you, madame, for quot- 
ing my uncle, who is honest and shrewd, but little 
polished. He is also a bit of a misanthrope, and 
has colored me : this you must have observed.” 

“ But if he is misanthrope, Monsieur Edouard, 
he will not sympathize with us — will he not de- 
spise us, who have so mismanaged Beaurepaire ?” 

“Permit me, Josephine,” said the doctor. 
“Natural history steps in here, and teaches by 
me, its mouth-piece — ahem ! A misanthrope 
hates all mankind, but is kind to every body, gen- 
erally too kind. A philanthrope loves the whole 
human race, but dislikes his wife, his mother, 
his brother, and his friends and acquaintances. 
Misanthrope is the potato — rough and repulsive 
outside, but good to the core. Philanthrope is a 
peach — his manner all velvet and bloom, and his 
words sweet juice, but his heart of hearts a stone. 
Let me read philanthrope’s book, and fall into 
the hands of misanthrope.” 

“ He is right ladies. My uncle will say plen- 
ty of biting words, w'hich, by-the-by, will not 
hurt you, who will not hear them — only me. 
He will lash us and lend us the money, and 
Beaurepaire will be free ; and I shall have had 
some little hand in it — hurrah !” 

“ Some little hand in it, good angel that heav- 
en has sent us !” said Josephine. 

Then came a delicious hour to Edouard Bi- 
vicre. Young and old poured out their glowing 
thanks and praises upon him till his cheeks burn- 
ed like fire. 

Josephine. “ And, besides, he raises our spirits 
so ; does he not, my mother ? Now, is not the 
house changed of late, doctor ? I appeal to you. ” 

St. Auhin. “I offer a frigid explanation. 
Among the feats of science is the infusion of 
blood. I have seen it done. Boiling blood from 
the veins of the healthy and the young is inject- 
ed into old or languid vessels. The effect is mag- 
ical. Well, Beaurepaire was old and languish- 
ing. Life’s warm current entered it with Ed- 
ouard : its languid ])ulses beat, and its system 
swells and throbs, and its heart is warm once 
more, and leaps with the blood of youth, and 


70 


WHITE LIES. 


dances in the sunshine of hope ; I also am young 
again like all the rest. Madame the baroness, 
pavottons f — you and I — tra la la la lah, tra la 
la la lah !” 

Laure. “ Ila ! ha ! ha ! Down with science, 
doctor.” 

St. Aubin. “ What impiety ! Some one will 
say, down with young ladies next.” 

Laure. “ No ! That would be punishing them- 
selves. Hear my solution of the mystery. In- 
jection of blood and infusion there is none. 
Monsieur is nothing more or less than a merry 
imp that has broken into paradise.” 

Josephine. “ The fine paradise that it was be- 
fore the imp came. No : it is that a man has 
come among a parcel of weak women, and put 
spirit into them.” 

St. Aubin. ‘-Also into an old useless dream- 
er worth but little.” 

Josephine. “ Fie then ! It was you who read 
him at sight. We babble, and he remains un- 
crowned.” 

Edouard. “No! no! There are no more Kings 
in France !” 

Josephine. “Excuse me, there is the King of 
Hearts ! And we are going to crown him. Come, 
Laure. Mamma, since monsieur has become 
diffident, would it be very wrong of us to use 
force just a little ?” 

“No, provided monsieur permits it,” said the 
baroness, with some hesitation. 

Laughter like a chime of bells followed this 
speech, and to that sweet music Riviere, spite 
of his mock dissent, was crowned. And in that 
magic circlet the young Apollo’s beauty shone 
out bright as a star. 

The green crown set off the rich chestnut hair, 
the shapely head, the rich glowing cheek, and 
the delicate white brow. Blushes mantled on 
his face, and triumph beamed in his ardent eyes. 
He adorned his crown in turn. 

“Is it permitted to be so handsome as that?” 
inquired the baroness, with astonishment. 

“ And to be as good as pretty,” cried Joseph- 
ine. 

Wliilst he thus sat in well-earned triumph, 
central pearl set round by loving eyes and happy 
faces that he had made shine, Jaointha came in 
and gave him a letter. 

“Dard brought it up from the town,” said 
she. 

Edouard, after asking permission, opened the 
letter, and the bright color ebbed from his cheek. 

“No ill news, I trust !” said the baroness kind- 
ly. “ No relation, no friend — ” 

“ No, madame,” said the young man. “ NfuJi- 
ing serious ; a temporary annoyance. Do not let 
it disturb your happiness for a moment.” And 
with these words he dismissed the subject, and 
was very gay and rather louder than before. 

Soon after he took his leave. He went into 
the kitchen, and after a few earnest words with 
Jacintha, went into the stable and gave his horse 
a feed. 

Tlie baroness retired to rest. In taking leave 
of them all, she kissed Laure with more than 
usual warmth, and, putting her out at arm’s 
length, examined her, then kissed her again. 

“Stay, doctor,” said Josephine, who was 
about to retire too. “What is it? Wliat can 
it be ?” 

“ Some family matter,” he said. 


“No! no! Did you not see what a struggle 
the poor boy went through the moment he read 
it ; he took off' his crown too, and sighed, oh, so 
sadly, as he laid it down.” 

“Mademoiselle,” said Jacintha, softly at the 
door, “ may he co : e in ?” 

“Yes!— yes!” 

Edouard came sadly. 

“ Is she gone to bed happy ?” 

“Yes, dear! thanks to you, and we will be 
firm. Keep nothing from us.” 

Edouard just gave her the letter, and leaned 
his head sorrowfully on his hand. 

Tiiey all read it together. It was from Picard. 

! Perrin it seems, had already purchased one of 
the claims on Bcaurepairc, value sixty thousand 
j francs, and now demanded in his own name the 
j sale of the property, upon the general order from 
j the directory. The mayor had consented, and 
I the affiche was even now in the printer’s hands. 
The letter continued : 

‘ ‘ It is to be regretted that you insulted Perrin 
at this stage of the business. Had you consulted 
us on this point, we should have advised you not 
j to take any steps of that sort until after the estate 
should be absolutely safe. IVe think he must have 
I followed you to our place and so learnt that you 
are our client in this matter, for he has sent a line 
to say he loill not trouble us, but will get the money 
elsewhere.'’' 

“That is what cuts me to the heart !” cried 
Edouard. “ It is I who ruin you after all. Oh ! 
how hard it is for a young man to be wise !” 

The girls came and sat beside Edouard, and, 
without speaking, glided each a kind hand into 
his. The doctor finished the letter. 

“ Put if you will send me down the new leases in a 
parcel, we shall perhaps be able to put a spoke in 
his wheel still ; meantime, we advise you to lose no 
time in raising a hundred and twenty thousand 
francs. IFe renew our offer of a similar sum ; 
but you must give us three days' notice." 

“ Good-bye, then,” 

“Stay a little longer.” 

“No ! lam miserable till I repair my folly.” 

“We will comfort you.” 

“Nothing can comfort me, but repairing the 
ill I have done.” 

“The ill you have done! But for you, all 
would have been over long ago !” 

“ Thank you for saying that — oh I thank you : 
will you see me off? I feel a little daunted — 
for the moment.” 

“ Poor boy, yes, we will see you off.” 

They went down with him. He brought his 
I horse round, and they walked together to the 
garden gate in silence. 

As he put his foot in the stirrup, Josephine 
murmured: “Do not vex yourself, little heart. 
Sleep well to-night after all your fatigues, and 
come to us early in the morning.” 

Edouard cliecked his horse, who wanted to 
start ; and turning in the saddle cried out with 
surprise : “ Why, where do you think I am go- 
ing ?” 

“ Home, to be sure.” 

“ Home ? while Beaurepaireis in peril ; sleep 
while Beaurepaire is in peril ! What ! don’t you 
{ see I am going to my uncle, twenty leagues from 
here.” 

“ Yes, but not now.” 

“ What ? fling away half a day ! — no, not an 


WHITE LIES. 


71 


hour, a minute ; the enemy is too keen, the stake 
is too great.” 

“But think, Ed — jMonsieur Edouard,” said 
Laure, “ you are so tired,” 

“ I was. But I am not now,” 

“But, mon Dieu! you will kill yourself, — one 
does not travel on horseback in the dark by 
night.” 

“Mademoiselle, the night and the day ar'e 
all one to a man w'hen he can serve those he 
loves.” With the very words his impatient heel 
pricked the willing horse, who started forward, 
striking fire in the night from the stones with 
his iron heels, that a moment after rang clear 
and sliarp down the road. They listened to the 
sounds as they struck, and echoed along, and 
then rang fainter and fainter and fainter, in the 
still night. When at last they could hear him 
no more, they w’ent slowly and sadly back to the 
chateau. Laure was in tears. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The French league in those days was 
longer than now ; it was full three miles English. 
Edouard baited his horse twenty miles from Beau- 
repaire: he then rode the other forty miles ju- 
diciously, but without a halt. 

He reached his uncle’s at three in the morn- 
ing : put his horse in the stable, and, not to dis- 
turb the inmates, got in by the kitchen window, 
which he found left open as in the golden age : 
the kitchen lire was smouldering ; he made it up, 
and dropped asleep on a chair as hard — as hard 
as a philanthropist’s heart, doctor. He seemed 
to have been scarce a minute asleep, when Red. 
Indians screeching all around woke him with a 
start, and there stood his uncle’s house-keeper, 
who screamed again at his jumping up, but died 
away into an uncertain quaver, and from that 
rose crescendo to a warm welcome. 

“But saints defend us, how you frightened 
me !” 

“You had your revenge. I thought a legion 
of fiends were yelling right into my ear. My 
uncle, — is he up?” 

“ Your uncle ! What, don’t you know ?” 

“ No ! how should I know ? What is the mat- 
ter? O Heaven, he is dead!” 

“Dead? No! Would he die like that, with- 
out settling his affairs ? No, but he is gone.” 

“Where?” 

“We don’t know. Took one shirt, a razor, 
and a comb, and off without a word, — just like 
him.” 

Edouard groaned. 

“When did he go?” 

“Yesterday, at noon.” 

Edouard swore. 

“Oh, don’t vex yourself like that. Master 
Edouard.” 

“ But, Marthe, it is life and death. I shall 
go mad ! I shall go mad !” 

“ No, don’t ye, — don’t ye ; bless you ! he will 
come back before long.” 

“ So he will, Marthe ; he must be back to- 
day, — he took but one shirt.” 

“ Hum !” said Marthe, doubtfully, “ that does 
not follow. I have seen him wear a shirt a good 
deal more than a day.” 


Edouard walked up and down the kitchen in 
great agitation. To spirits of his kind to be com- 
pelled to be passive and wait for others, unable to 
do any thing for themselves, is their worst tor- 
ture ; it is fever plus paralysis. 

^ The good woman soothed him and coaxed 
him. 

‘ ‘ Have a cup of coffee. See,— I have warm- 
ed it, and the milk and all.” 

“Thank you, my good Marthe. I have the 
appetite of a wolf.” 

“ And after that go to bed, and the moment 
your uncle comes I will wake you.” 

“Ah! thank you, good Marthe. Oh yes; 
bed by all means. Better be asleep than twid- 
dling one’s thumbs awake.” 

So Marthe got him to bod ; and, once there. 
Nature prevailed, and he slept twelve hours at a 
stretch. 

Just at sunset he awoke, and took it for sun- 
rise. He dressed himself hastily and came 
down. His uncle had not arrived. He did not 
know what on earth to do. He had a presenti- 
ment that while his hands were tied the enemy 
was working. 

“And if not,” said he, “wh}', then, chance 
is robbing me of the advantage zeal ought to be 
gaining me.” 

“ Wait till to-morrow,” said Marthe ; “ if he 
docs not come I shall have a letter.” 

Edouard sat down and wrote a lino to Doctor 
St. Aubin, telling him his ill luck, and begging 
the doctor to send dpwn the leases to Picard, as 
he had requested. 

“Picard is wiser than I am,” said he. 

The morning came, — no letter. Then Edou- 
ard had another anxiety, — he was away from 
his post. Commandant Raynal was a Tartar. 
He had better ride over and ask for a week’s 
leave of absence ; and now was the time to do 
it. On his return perhaps his uncle would be at 
home. 

“Yes! I’ll saddle Mirabeau and ride over; 
then I shall not be twiddling my thumbs all 
day.” 

Commandant Raynal lived about half-way 
between his uncle’s farm and Beaurepaire. 

As Edouard came in sight of the house a dun 
pony was standing voluntarily by the door, and 
presently the notary issued forth, got into the 
saddle, and ambled towards Edouard. Edou- 
ard felt a chill at sight of him, but this was soon 
followed by a burning heat and a raging desire 
to go at him like the whirlwind, and ride both 
him and his beast of a pony into the dust. 

He was obliged to keep saying to himself, 
“Wait a day or two, wait a day or two,” and 
did not trust himself to look at the man as they 
passed one another. 

The other looked at him, though, through 
his half-open lids, a glance of bitter malignity. 
Meeting his enemy so suddenly, and at his com- 
mandant’s house, discomposed Edouard greatly, 
perplexed him greatly. 

“ Can these notaries divine one’s very plans 
before they are formed?” said he to himself; 
“can these practised villains? — No. He has 
come here simply to do me some general mis- 
chief, to set my commandant against me : he 
has timed the attack well, now that I have 
a favor to ask him, and he such a disciplina- 
rian.” 


72 


WHITE LIES. 


Edouard came before Raynal despondently, 
and after the usual greeting said : 

“I have a favor to ask you, commandant.” 

“Speak ! ” rang out the commandant. 

“A short leave of absence?” 

“ Humph !” 

“On pressing affairs: oh monsieur, do not 
refuse me ?” 

“Who tells you that I shall refuse you?” 
asked the commandant, roughly. 

“ No one, monsieur, but I have enemies: and 
I feared one of them might have lately maligned 
me beliind my back.” 

“Citizen Riviere,” replied the other, sternly, 
“if a man came to me to accuse any one of my 
officers behind his back, I sliould send for that 
officer and say to his accuser: ‘Now there is 
the man, look him in the face and say your 


“I was a fool,” cried the young man : “ my 
noble commandant — ” 

“Enough!” said the commandant, rudely. 
“Nobody has ever said a word against you in 
my hearing. It is true,” he added satirically, 
“very few have ever mentioned you at all.” 

“ My name has not been mentioned to you 
to-day, commandant?” 

“No! — halt!” cried the exact soldier, “ex- 
cept by the servant who announced you. Read 
that dispatch while I give an order outside? ” 

Edouard read the dispatch, and the blood 
rushed to his brow at one sentence in it : 
“Edouard Riviere is active, zealous, and punc- 
tual. In six months more you can safely pro- 
mote him.” This was all : but not a creature 
besides was praised at all. 

The commandant returned. 

“ Oh, commandant, what goodness !” 

“Citizen, I rose from the ranks, — how? — 
guess !” 

“By valor, by chivalry, by Spart — ” 

“ Gammon ! — by minding my business : there 
is the riddle key : and that is why my eye is on 
those who mind their business, — you are one : 
I have praised you for it, — so, now, how many 
days do you want to waste ? Speak.” 

“ A few, a vei’y few.” 

‘ Ai'e ye in love ? That is enough, — you ai*e, 
— more fool you. Is it to go after her you fall 
to the rear ?” 

“No indeed, commandant.” 

“Look me in the face! There are but two 
men in the world, — the man who keeps his word, 
and the man who breaks it. The first is an hon- 
est man, the second is a liar, and waiting to be 
a thief ; if it is to run after a girl, take a week : 
any thing else, a fortnight. No! no thanks! 
I have not time for chit-chat. March.” 

Edouard rode away in triumph. 

“Long live the Commandant Raynal!” he 
shouted. “He is not flesh and blood. He is 
metal : he rings, loud and true. His words 
are not words, they are notes of some golden 
trumpet; and after being with him five minutes 
one feels like beating all the notaries on earth.” 

Ho reached his uncle’s place. 

“Not come home. Master Edouard.” 

The cold fit fell on him. 

Th(^ next morning came a letter from his un- 
cle, dated Paris. 


Edouard was ready to tear his hair. “ Gone 
to Paris with one shirt ! Who could foresee a 


human creature going from any })lace but Bicctre 
to the capital of the world with one shirt ! Order 
my horse, Marthe. He will turn it, I suppose, 
after the first week. That will be a comjjliment 
to the capital. Ten thousand devils I I shall 
go mad. Order my horse.” 

“ Where are you going, my young monsieur ?” 

“ To Paris. Equip me ; lend me a shirt. 
He has one left, has he not ?” 

Marthe did not even deign to notice this skit. 

“But he is coming home I — he is coming 
home !”she cried ; “you don’t read the letter.” 

“ True ; he is coming home to-day or to- 
morrow. Heaven above, how these old men 
talk ! as if to-day and to-morrow were the same 
tiling, or any thing like the same tiling. I shall 
ride to Paris.” 

“ Then you will miss him on the road.” 

“Give me paper and ink, Marthe. I will 
write letters all da}*. Ah ! how unlucky I am !” 

He wrote a long letter to St. Aubin, telling 
him all he had done and suffered. He wrote 
also to the notary, conjuring him again to watch 
the interests of Beaurepaire keenly while he 
should be away. Then he got his horse and 
galloped round and round his uncle’s paddock, 
and suffered the tortures that sluggish spirits 
never feel and can not realize. The next after- 
noon — oh joy ! — his uncle’s burly form appeared, 
and gave him a hearty welcome. 

The poor boy wanted to open his business at 
once, but he saw there was no chance of his be- 
ing listened to, till a good score of farm ques- 
tions had been put and answered. 

In the evening he got his uncle to himself and 
told him his story, and begged his uncle to ad- 
vance the two hundred and forty thousand francs 
on mortgage. 

His uncle received the proposal coldly. “ I 
don’t see my way to it, Edouard,” said he. “I 
must draw my money out of the public funds, 
and they are rising fast. No ; I can’t do it.” 

Edouard implored his uncle not to look on it 
in that light, but as a benevolent action, that 
would be attended with less loss than actions of 
such merit usually are. 

“But why should I lose a sou for those aris- 
tocrats ?” 

“ If you knew them, — but you do not, my un- 
cle : do it for me ! — for. me whose heart is* tied 
to them forever !” 

“ Pheugh ! Well, look here, Edouard, ift'ou 
have really been fool enough to fall in love there, 
and have a mind to play Georges Dandin, I’ll 
find you some money for the part ; but I can’t 
afford so much as this, and I wash my hands of 
your aristos." 

“ Enough, ray uncle. I have not then a friend 
in the world but those whom you call aristos." 

“You are an ungrateful boy. It is I who 
have no friend : and I thought he came to see 
me out of love : old fool ! it was for money, like 
all the rest.” 

“ You insult me, my uncle. But you have the 
right. I do not answer. I go awav.” 

“ Go to all tlie devils, my nephew !” 

Edouard was interrupted on his way to the 
stables by old jMarthe. 

“No, ray young monsieur, you do not leave 
us like that.” 

“ He insulted me, Marthe.” 

“ Ah bah ! he insults me three times a week, 


WHITE LIES. 


and I him, for that matter : hut \vc don’t part 
any the more for that. He shall apologize. 
Above all, he shall lend your aristocrats the 
money. It won’t ruin us.” 

“Why, Marthe, you must have listened.” 

“ Parbku ! and a good thing too. You keep 
quiet. You will see he has had his bark, and 
There is not much bite in him, poor man, though 
he tliinks he is full of it.” 

“ Oh my good Marthe, I know his character, 
and that he is good at bottom, but to come here 
and wait, and wait, and lose days when every 
hour was gold, and then to be denied, ^[on 
Dieu ! where should I come for help but to my 
mother’s brother ? Alas ! I have no other kin- 
dred I” . . 

Marthe prevailed on him to stay. 

This done, she went and attacked her master. 

“ Are you content ?” asked she, calmly, dust- 
ing a chair, or pretending to. “ He weeps.” 

“ Who weeps ?” 

“Our guest, — our nephew, — our pretty child.” 

“All the worse for him. You don’t know 
then, — he insulted me.” 

“ To whom do you tell that? I was at the 
kevhole.” 

“ Ugh !” 

“ The boot is on the other leg ; it is you who 
treated him cruelly. He weeps, and he is go- 
ing away.” 

“ Going ? Where ?’’ 

“ Do I know ? Where you bade him go ! ! ! !” 

“That gives me pain, that he should go like 
that.” 

“I knew it would, our master, so I stopped 
him, sore against his will.” 

“You did well; that will be worth a new 
gown to you. What did you say to him ?” 

“I said, ‘You must not take things to heart 
like that; our master is a vile temper — ’ ” 

“ Ye lied !” 

“ ‘But he has a good heart.’ ” 

“You spoke the truth ; I am too good.” 

“ ‘ He is your mother’s brother,’ said I, ‘and 
though he is a little wicked he does not hate you 
at the bottom. Stay with us, and don’t talk 
about money,’ said I, ‘ that nettles him.’ For all 
that, master, I could not help thinking to myself, 
we are old, and we can’t take our money away 
with us : our time will soon come when we must 
go away as bare as we came.” 

“That is true, confound it!” 

“ As for my dirt of money, and I have rolled 
up a good bit in your service, for you know you 
never were stingy to ! — ” 

“ Because I never caught you robbing me, you 
old jade. ” 

“I shall let him have that, any way.” 

“ If yon dare to say such a word to him I’ll 
wring your neck round; who are you to come 
with your three coins between my sister’s son 
and me ? be off and cook the dinner.” 

“ I go, our master.” 

Uncle and nephew met at dinner: and neph- 
ew, after his rebuff, talked any thing but mon- 
ey. After dinner, which Marthe took care 
siionld be much to his taste, the old man leaned 
back in his chair, and said with a good-hurnor 
large as the ocean : 

“ Now, nephew, about this little affliir ofyours? 
Now is the time to come to a man for money ; 
after dinner I feel like doing any thing, however 


foolish, to make all the world happy before I 
die.” 

Edouard, finding him in this humor, told the 
story of Beaurepaire more fully, laid bare his 
own feelings to an auditor who, partly for good- 
humor, partly remorse, exhibited an almost lu- 
dicrous amount of sympathy, real or factitious, 
with every sentiment, however delicate, Edouard 
exhibited to him. 

He concluded by vowing they should have the 
money if the security was sound : “And it must 
be,” said he, “because the rents are raised, and 
you have paid off one of the mortgages. How 
long can you give me?” 

“Oh, my dear uncle, we may have a deadly 
enemy. Time is gold, too.’’ 

“Let us see: to-morrow is market-day, and 
the next day is the fair.” 

Edouard sighed. 

“The day after — we will see about it.” 

Edouard groaned. 

“I mean we will go down to the Mairie in 
mv cabriolet.” 

*“ Ah ! ” 

“ And the money in our pocket.” 

“ Ah I let me embrace you, my dear uncle.” 

Thus a term was put to Edouard’s anxieties. 
In three days his uncle would be the .sole credit- 
or of Beaurepaire. Still he could not help count- 
ing the hours, and he did not really feel safe till 
Thursday evening eame, and his uncle showed 
him an apoplectic pocket-book, and ordered his 
Norman horse, a beast of singular power and 
bottom, to be fed early for the journey. 

The youth was in a delicious reverie : the old 
man calmly smoking his pipe : when Marthe 
brought a letter in that the postman had just left. 
It was written in a lady’s hand. His heart throb- 
bed : Marthe watched him with a smile, and 
found an excuse for hanging about. He opened 
it: his eye went like lightning to the signature. 

Laure Aglae Rose clc Beaurepaire. 

The sweet name was on its way to his eager 
lips, when he caught sight of a word or two 
above it that struck him like some icy dagger. 
He read, and the color left Ids very lips, lie sat 
with the letter, and seemed a man turned into 
stone, all but his quivering lip, and the trem- 
bling hands that held that dear handwriting. 

CHAPTER XVH. 

Notary read notary. The ])ieces of that pla- 
card flung in Perrin’s face were a revelation as 
well as an affront. 

He made inquiries and soon learned the states- 
man was the champion of Beaurepaire and also 
a client of Picard. Putting the two together, 
he suspected his rival had been playing with 
him. “ Picard is playing that young ruffian’s 
game,” said he. “ Perhaps means to lend him 
his money instead of me.” His suspicions went 
no farther. 

But the next day a gossip told him the Beau- 
repaire tenants had been sewewed up thirty pegs. 

He saw at once the consequences to the es- 
tate. His vengeance would escaj)e him as well 
as his prize. 

He took a quick resolution and acted upon it. 

He rode to Commandant Raynal. 


7i 


WHITE LIES. 


That officer, it may be remcmberetl, had 
months ago given him a commission to buy an 
estate. lie had been looking out for one for liim 
ever since, but unluckily he had not been able to 
find a bad enough one to suit. An agent looks 
not to his employer’s interest but his own. 
The small nominal percentage he receives is a 
mere blind. He would not give you the detri- 
ment of his own judgment for a paltry five per 
cent. From a piano-forte to a house, and down 
again to that most despised property, an author’s 
creation, agency is an organized swindle. 

Perrin had his eye on Beaurepaire when Ray- 
nal first gave him the commission ; but ho never 
for a moment intended to get his employer such 
a bargain as that. lie was waiting till some 
one should have an estate to sell worth one 
hundred and eighty thousand francs. He would 
have gone to this man and said, “Now if I get 
you your money, five per cent, comes to me of 
course.” This being assented to, he would have 
kept quiet a while: then he would have come 
back, and said, “ I can get you a customer, 
but you must ask two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand francs, — the odd seventy thousand over 
your price is forme.” 

This is the principle of agency as practised 
in France, in England, and above all in Poland, 
where an apple can’t change hands without an Is- 
raelite to come between the two silly natives, and 
pass it across after peeling it thick. But neither 
in France, England, nor Poland wash the princi- 
ple in all its branches better understood than by 
this worthy notary. 

And to those principles he was now for the 
first time about to be a traitor. Behold him jog- 
ging along on the dun pony, to give his princi- 
pal the best bargain in the country-side. 

A sharp pang of remorse shot through him 
at the thought : but he never wavered. Fortu- 
nately for himself ho was not all one vice. lie 
was vindictive, as well as grinding ; was capa- 
ble of sacrificing, not his interest, perhaps, but 
a percentage on it, to revenge. When we are 
bent on doing a thing we find reasons of all sorts. 
He said to himself, ‘ I shall be his steward, his 
agent ; ho is a soldier, — never there — perhaps 
get knocked on the head, — die intestate, — aha?” 
In short a vista of possible consequences. 

Raynal cut short the notary’s glowing descrip- 
tion of the unrivalled bargain he had with un- 
exampled zeal and fidelity secured him. 

“ What is to be done ?” 

“We must go together to the mayor, at San- 
tenov ?” 

“Good.” 

“ How many days shall you require to get 
your money from your bankers ?” 

“My bankers? it is all in my knapsack.” 

“Ah ! then we can settle this immediately.” 

“ No ! we can’t ! public business first, private 
afterwards.” He consulted a card. “To-mor- 
row, after one o’clock, I’m free, — be at Santenoy 
at three, — will that do ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Get every thing ready : I will ride down by 
three. How much money ?” 

“About two hundred and fifty thousand 
francs.” 

“ I did not ask you about how much !” said 
the precisian. “ I said how much ? never mind. 
I’ll bring enough. Good-day.” 


Next day, at a quarter before three, Perrin 
was parading in some anxiety before theMairie. 
Just at the stroke of three up clattered the com- 
mandant in full uniform ; off his horse in a mo- 
ment, and got a boy to hold it. Ho gave Perrin 
two hundred and fifty thousand francs, and sent 
him to the Mairie to buy Beaurepaire while he 
went to inspect a small barrack that was build- 
ing in the town of Santenoy. 

Perrin went in and had audience of the mayor, 
and announced a purchaser of Beaurepaire : the 
mayor’s countenance fell. He loitered about ; 
was a long time finding this document and that : 
at last he said, “ Have you got the money ?” 

“ Yes !” said the notary, “ two hundred and 
fifty thousand francs. Here they are.” 

The mayor pottered about again ; found a pa- 
per; put on his spectacles. “That is not the 
price,” said he; “the estate is worth two hun- 
dred and ninety-five thousand francs.” 

“How can that be, monsieur? tw'o hundred 
and fifty thousand is the figure on your placard.” 

“So it is,” said the mayor, apologetically. 
“I ought to have altered it. The order from 
the directory mentions no sum. It is conceived 
in general terms : the estate is to be sold for a 
certain sum, over and above the capital of the 
rents at twenty-seven years’ purchase. Since I 
put up that placard the rents have been raised : 
in evidence of which the leases have been sent 
over to me. Here they are. Since you propose 
to purchase, you are at liberty to inspect them. 
For two hundred and ninety-five thousand one 
hundred and forty francs, the chateau and tlie 
estate are yours.” 

“ This is Picard,” said Perrin, spitefully. 

The mayor aflfected not to hear him. Perrin 
Avent out to tell this rebuff to Raynal. He found 
him inspecting the barrack. He explained the 
matter, and excused himself, throwing the blame 
on the mayor, who, not being a man of business, 
allowed a placard with false figures to stand upon 
his wall. 

“ Well, but,” said Raynal, “since it turns out 
to be woi’th two hundred and ninety-five thousand 
one hundred and forty franc.s, instead of two hun- 
dred and fifty thousand francs, all the better for 
me : it is only paying the odd money.” 

“But where are we to get it ? I would lend 
it you to-morrow, but to-morrowmay be too late.” 

“ Oh, I have got another fifty thousand francs 
in my pocket,” said the other, coolly. “I 
brought all I have got ; you did not seem very 
clear how much we should want.” 

“Come to the mayor, monsieur, at once!” 
cried the exulting notary : “ make haste, or he 
will pretend it is after office hours.” 

When the commandant entered, epaulette on 
shoulder, sword clanking, and laid down the 
whole purchase-money demanded, the mayor 
made no further resistance. 

He was personally acquainted with Raynal : 
admired him, stood in awe of him, and of the 
sword whose power he represented. As for Ray- 
nal, he bought the property he had never seen, 
much as you buy a hot roll across a counter. 

From this moment the ancient lands, timber, 
chateau, fish-ponds, manorial and baronial righ' s 
in abeyance, and the oak-tree that was older than 
the family itself, belonged to a soldier who had 
risen from the ranks, and to the heirs of his ple- 
beian body. 


WHITE LIES. 


“ I can sleep there to-ni"ht, cli ?” 

The notary stared, and tlien smiled : here was 
a man who outran even his vengeance. 

He explained to him that he could not sleep 
at his own house till he had turned his lodgers 
out. The law requires that we serve a notice on 
them, 

“ Let us go and serve it, then.” 

“But it is not even drawn up.” 

“ Draw it up.” 

“ And then it has to be engrossed.” 

“Engross it. I’ll wait here.” 

“ But it must be served before noon of the day 
ii is served on.” 

“ Sac-r-7'-r-r-e ! ! dog of a law ! that can’t do a 
single thing without half a dozen preliminaries. 
The bayonet forever. Well, let me see. One 
of my officers lives near at hand. He is absent 
on leave. Do you know him ? His name is 
Hiviere.” 

“ I know him by sight.” 

“ I’ll take possession of his quarters for the 
night : his landlady knows me.” 

“ Yes ! yes !” cried the notary, his eyes glitter- 
ing with gratified malice. “ Why, he lives close 
to the chateau.” 

“ Good ! then we can sally out on it in the 
morning.” 

“ Yes ! commandant, — yes ! You have bright 
ideas, that is the place to sally from and he 
chuckled fiendishly. “ At ten to-morrow I call 
on you ; and we take possession of your proper- 
ty.” 

' “ So be it ! at ten. Good-day. I must go 
back to the barracks and spur the workmen.” 

As the commandant went to the barracks, he 
thought to himself : “ ‘ My property,’ those 

w’ords have a fine sound. They ought too : cost 
one hundred and fifty thousand francs apiece. 
By St. Denis I am a fortunate man ! there are 
not many soldiers of my age that can say ‘my 
property,’ especially soldiers that have carried a 
knapsack. How proud my poor old mother 
would be ! Ah ! that spoils it all. She will not 
sit facing me on the hearth. It would be her 
new house ; or our new house. It will only be 
mine. Allona f I am an ungrateful cur to whine. 
We can’t have every thing. I’m not the first to 
whom prosperity has come a year or so too late. 
I shall not be the last. Her dream of paradise 
used to be a house intlie country. Duty !” And 
the sword clanked on the pavement as he walk- 
ed sharply to spur the workmen, before riding up 
to his quarters for the night. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

After Edouard’s departure Josephine de 
Bcaurej)aire was sad, and weighed down with 
jwesentiments. 

“My friend,” said she to St. Aubin, “I feel 
as I think soldiers must feel who know the enemy 
is undermining them : no danger on the surface : 
nothing that can be seen, met, baffied, attacked, 
or evaded. In daily peril, all the more Itprrible 
that it imitates perfect serenity, they await the 
fatal match.” * 

“You exaggerate,” replied St. Aubin, sooth- 
ingly. “We have a friend still more zealous and 
active than our enemy : believe me, your depres- 
sion is really caused by his absence : we all miss 


the contact of that young heroic spirit ; we are 
a body, and he its soul.” 

Josephine was silent, for she said to Herself; 
“Why should I dash these spirits? they are so 
happy and confident.” 

So after that she remained alone in her mus- 
ings. Edouard had animated Laure and St. 
Aubin with a courage that withstood the fears 
caused by the notary’s last blow. 

As for the baroness, she was like a fading plant 
revived by showers and sun. The system they 
pursued with her, which Edouard dubbed reti- 
cence, made her a happy old woman. She was 
allow'ed to see her own champion’s last move, 
and then the curtain was dropped. This then 
was to her the whole face of affairs : her rents 
raised, the only hostile creditor she knew of paid 
off, a thousand francs in the house, and an ardent 
youth with the face of an angel added to her 
family and her heai't. Shall I own that even 
juicy meat and Arabian coffee co-operated with 
nobler incidents to cheer and sustain her ? — No ! 
This refined lady was all soul, — like yourself, 
Mrs. Reader ! 

It was a balmy morning, though late in the 
year ; Josephine and Laure had breakfasted, and 
were walking slowly on the south terrace, by ordi- 
nance of physician. Recent events had brought 
St. Aubin quite down out of the clouds. His at- 
tention being fairly awakened to all sublunary 
affairs on his beat, he now superintended the 
health of the entire fiimily with extraordinary 
severity. 

Not being an apothecary with drugs to sell, 
right or wrong, or a physician in league with a 
retailer of drugs, he prescribed to eacli of these 
three ladies every dry day, and to the younger 
ones every day, a draught of morning air. He 
was now waiting in the hall to give the baroness 
his arm as soon as she should come down. 

“ What a delicious morning, Josejdiine ! the 
dear doctor is right ; the morning is really a 
good time to walk, the air seems j)erfumed,” 

“ Yes, Laure, Jet us enjoy our home as much 
as we can, since any day we may lose it.” 

“Now are you going to begin? — such idle 
fears ! The estate is for sale, but money is scarce. 
Who can find such a quantity of it all in a mo- 
ment ? Clearly it must be some one who loves 
us.” 

“Or some one who hates us.” 

“Oh, love is stronger than hate.” 

“ In you.” 

“In every body. Here is mamma! here’s 
mamma !” 

Then — how you young people of an uncere- 
monious age would have laughed! — the demoi- 
selles de Beaurepaire, inasmuch as this was their 
mother’s first appearance, lowered their fair heads 
at the same time, like young poplars bowing to 
the wind, and so waited reverently till she had 
slightly lifted her hands, and said : — 

“ God bless you my children !” 

It was done in a moment on both sides, but 
was full of grace and piety and the charm of an- 
cient manners. 

“ How is our dear mother’s health this morn- 
ing?” inquired Josephine. 

“You must ask monsieur; he has become 
tyrannical, and forbids me to have an opinion on 
such points.” 


76 


WHITE LIES. 


“TliG bareness is well, inesdemoiselles, bat 
she will be better when she lias taken my pre- 
scription, — one turn before breakfast and two 
dranglits of 3*011 know what.” 

“ Eerhaps, since you know every thinfr, doctor, 
you will tell me how mamma slept ?” inquired 
Laure, a little pertl\*. 

“ She slept well if she took what I gave her.” 

“ But did she take what you gave her ? — ha ! 
ha! You don’t know.” 

“To ascertain that I must feel her pulse.” 

“ I slept, Laure, and I am sorry I did.” 

“ Ingrate 1” said the doctor. 

“For I dreamed, doctor, and it was an ugly 
dream. I was with you all in the garden, on this 
very spot or near it. But it was not at this time 
of year, for I was admiring my flowers and my 
old friends the trees, and the birds were singing 
with all their might. Suddenly a loud clock 
struck. I do not know whalf hour, but it struck 
a great man}* times. In a moment flowers, trees, 
sk}', and the light of da}-- were gone. I looked, — 
I could see no more my beloved dwelling nor my 
children’s e 3 'es. Shall I tell you what it means?” 
said the old lady, gravely. “It means that I 
was dead. An ugl}* dream my children, — an 
ugly dream. Again, had it come a month ago, 
— but now all is so bright and hopeful, I wish to 
sta}' with my darlings a little longer.” 

“It was only a dream, dear mother,” cried 
Josephine, ga 3 *ly. 

“ See, here is your terrace and your chateau.” 

“ And here are your daughters,” said Laure; 
and they both came close to her to put their ex- 
istence out of doubt. 

“ And here is your faithful though useless old 
friend,” 

“ Breakfast, madame !” and Jacintha courte- 
sied to each lady in turn. 

“Jacintha has turned the conversation agree- 
ablv. I was going to cloud you all.” 

“ I now prescribe breakfast, madame, and ob- 
livion of idle dreams. You will walk half an 
hour more, young ladies.” 

The sisters took several turns in silence. 
Laure was the first to speak. 

“ How superstitious you are, my sister.” 

“ I ? I have said nothing.” 

“No; but you look volumes. I believe in our 
\’oung madman more than in our dear mother’s 
dreams.” 

“ He will do all he can. Yes ! — 3 ’’es ! — I think 
with you his energy, his spirits, will defeat our 
enemy.” 

“Of course they will, Josephine. I am glad 
you begin to look at things as the}’’ are. See 
liow our mother’s health and spirits are improv- 
ing ; no wonder, since ever}* thing now is bright, 
— and here comes Jacintha in a wonderful 
hurry, — mamma wants us. No ; how white she 
is. Oh, .Josephine, there is something the mat- 
ter ! INIamma is ill, — her dream !” 

“Hush! hush! hush!” cried Jacintha, who 
came towards them wringing her hands. “ Oh, 
mesdemoiselles, — oh, mesdemoisellcs, — the cha- 
teau ! — oh, don’t let my poor mistress know, — it 
will kill her. Oh, what shall I do ? what shall I 
do?” 

“ Be calm, Laure, — be calm, Jacintha,” said 
Josephine, trembling all over, except her voice. 
“Now one word, — oh! ni}’ presentiments! — 
Beaurepairc !” 


Jacintha clasped her hands and burst out sob- 
bing. 

“It is sold,” said Josephine. “ Heaven give 
me wisdom, what shall I do? quick, girl, who 
to ? to that man, — to Perrin ?” 

“ 'J’o a stranger, to an officer, a grand officer. 
Hard told me the very name, cursed be it.” 

“A Bonapartist ! Then we are ruined. I 
have killed my own mother.” 

“No! no ! my sister, — she will faint.” 

“No! Laure. This is no time for weakness. 
Come to the Pleasance. There is water there. 
I love my mother ! I love my mother !” 

She went with tottering steps towards the pool 
in the Pleasance, but turning the corner she 
started back with a convulsive cry, and her mo- 
mentary feebleness left her directly ; she crouch- 
ed against the wall and gripped the ancient cor- 
ner-stone with her tender hand till it powdered, 
and she spied with dilating e\*e into the Plea- 
sance, Laure and Jacintha panting behind her. 
Two men stood with their backs turned to her, 
looking at the oak-tree : one an officer in full 
uniform, the other the human snake Perrin. 
Though the soldier’s back was turned, his off- 
handed, peremptory manner told her he was in- 
specting the place as its master. 

“The baroness! the baroness!” cried Jacin- 
tha, with horror. They looked round, and the 
baroness was at their very backs. 

“What is it?” cried she, gayh". 

“ Nothing, mamma !” 

“ Let me see this nothing !” 

They glanced at one another, and, idle as the at- 
tempt was, the habit of sparing her prevailed, and 
they flung themselves between her and the blow. 

“Josephine is not well, my mother. She 
wants to go in.” Both girls faced the baroness. 

“Yes, if my mother will go with me,” said 
Josephine. 

“ Jacintha,” said the baroness, “fetch Mon- 
sieur St. Aubin. There, I have sent her awav. 
So now tell me why do you drive me back in this 
way ?” 

“Did I? I was not aware.” 

“Children, something has happened;” and 
she looked keenly from one to the other. 

“Oh, mamma, do not go that wa}’^ : there are 
strangers in the Pleasance.” 

“ Let me see, — I tell vou I will sec. So there 
are. Insolents ! Call Jacintha, that I may or- 
der these people out of my premises.” 

“ Mother, for Heaven’s sake,” cried Josephine, 
“ be calm.” 

“ Be calm when impertinent intruders come 
into my garden ?” 

“ Mother, they are not intruders.” 

“ What do }*ou mean ?” 

“ They have a right to be in our Pleasance.” 

“Josephine ! Laure ! oh ! my heart !” 

“Yes, mother! that officer*has bought the 
chateau.” 

“ It is impossible ! 7/e was to buy it for us, — 

I there is some mistake,— what man would kill a 
' j)oor old woman like me ! I will speak to this 
' monsieur ; he wears a sword. Soldiers do not 
trample on women. Ah ! that man.” 

I The notary, attracted by her voice, came to- 
: wards her, a paper in his hand, 
j Raynal coollv inspected the tree, and tapped 
it with his scabb.ard, and left Perrin to do the 
! dirty work. 


WHITE LIES. 


77 


The notary took off his h.at, and, witli a n?a- 
lignant affectation of respect, presented the bar- 
oness with a paper. 

The poor old thing took it with a courtesy 
the effect of habit, and read it to her daughters 
as well as her emotion permitted and the lan- 
guage, which was as new to her as the dialect 
of Cat Island to Columbus. 

Jean Raynal, domiciled hy rights and lodging 
in fact at the chateau of Reaui cpaire, acting by the 
purszdt and diligence of Master Perrin^ notary ; 
/, Guillaume Le Gras, bailiff, give notice to Jo- 
sephine Aglae St. Croix de Peaurepaire, commonly 
called the Baroness de Beaurepaire, having no 
knoion place of abode — ” 

“Oh!” 

“ but lodging wrongfully at the said chateau of 
Beaurepaire that she is warned to decamp iciihin 
iwenty-J'our hours — ” 

“ To decamp! Ah ! Dieu !” 

’■'•failing which, that she 'will be thereto enforced 
in the manner for that case made and provided 
with the aid of all the officers and agents of the 
public force. ” 

“Ah! no, messieurs, pray do not use force. 
I am frightened enough already. Mon Dieu \ I 
did not know I was doing any thing wrong. I 
have been here thirty years. But, since Beau- 
repaire is sold, I comprehend perfectly that I 
must go. It is just. As you say, I am not in 
my own house. I will go, messieurs. Whither 
shall I go, my children? The house where you 
were born to me is ours no longer. Excuse me, 
gentlemen, — this is nothing to you. Ah ! sir, 
you have revenged yourself on two weak wom- 
en, — may God forgive you ! In twenty-four 
hours I yes ! in twenty-four hours the Baroness 
de Beaurepaire will trouble no one more in this 
world.” 

The notary turned on his heel. The poor 
baroness, all Avhose pride the iron law, with its 
iron gripe, had crushed with dismay and terror, 
appealed to him. 

“ Oh, sir ! send me from the house, but not 
from the soil where my Henri is laid *, is there 
not in all this domain a corner where she who 
was its mistress may lie down and die ! Where 
is the new baron, that I may ask the favor of 
him on my knees?” 

She turned towards Raynal, and seemed to be 
going tow’ards him with outstretched arms. 
But Laure checked her with fervor: — 

“ Oh, mamma, do not lower yourself! Ask 
nothing of these wretches ! Let us lose all, but 
not forget ourselves.” 

The baroness had not her daughter’s spirit. 
Her very person tottered under this blow. Jo- 
sephine supported her, and the next moment St. 
Aiibin came out and hastened to her side. 
Her head fell back : what little strength she had 
failed her. She was half lifted, half led into 
the house. 

Commandant Raynal was amazed at all this. 

“ What the deuce is the matter?” said he. 

“Oh!” said the notary. “We are used to 
these little scenes in our business.” 

“But I am not,” replied the soldier. “You 
never told me there was to bo all this fuss.” 

“ What does it matter to you, monsieur, — 
the house is yours. To-morrow at this time I 
will meet you here, and we will take actual 
possession. Adieu !” 


“ Good-day.” 

The soldier strode up and down the Pleasance. 
He twisted his mustaches, muttered, and pested, 
and was ill at ease. 

Accustomed to march gayly into a town and 
see the regiment that was there before march- 
ing gayly out, or vice versa, and to strike tents 
twice a quarter at least, he was little prepared 
for such a scene as this. True, he did not hear 
the baroness’s words, but more than one tone 
of sharp distress reached him where he stood, 
and the action of the whole scene was so express- 
ive there was little need of words. He saw the 
notice given, — the dismay it caused, and the old 
lady turn imploringly towards him with a speak- 
ing gesture, and above all he saw her carried 
away, half fainting, her hands clasped, her rev- 
erend face pale. He was not a man of quick 
sensibilities. He did not thoroughly take the 
scene in : it grew upon him afterwards. 

“Confound it,” thought he, “I am the pro- 
prietor. They all say so. Instead of which I 
feel like a thief, — like a butcher. Fancy any 
one getting so fond of n place as all this.” 

Presently it occurred to him that the short- 
ness of the notice must have a great deal to do 
with their distress. 

“What an ass that Perrin is not to tell 
me the house was full of women. But these 
notaries comprehend nothing save law : wom- 
en can’t ‘Left should-der — forward — quick — 
march!’ — like us: they have such piles of bag-- 
gage, they never can strike tents when the order 
comes. Perhaps if I were to give them twen- 
ty-four days instead of hours? — hum?” 

With this the commandant fell into a brown 
study, a rare thing for him, who had so little 
time and so much work. Row each of us has 
his attitude of brown study. One runs about 
the room like hyena in his den : another stands 
stately with folded arms (this one seldom thinks 
to the purpose) : another sits cross-legged, brows 
lowered : another must put his head into his 
hand, and so keep it up to thinking mark : an- 
other must twiddle a bit of string, or a key, — 
grant him this, he can hatch an epic. This 
commandant must draw himself up very straight, 
and walk six paces and back very slowly till the 
problem was solved : there, — I w ill be frank, — 
he had done a good deal of sentinel work: and 
such is the force of early habits, that when he 
was not busy, only thinking, his body still slip- 
ped back to its original habit. 

Whilst he was guarding the old oak-tree, for 
all the world as if it had been the gate of the 
Tuileries or the barracks, Josephine de Beaure- 
paire came suddenly out from the house and 
crossed the Pleasance : her hair was in disorder, 
her manner wild: she passed swiftly into the 
park. 

Now Raynal wms puzzling himself how to 
let the family know they need not pack up 
their caps and laces in tw'cnty-four hours. The 
notary was gone, and he did not like to enter 
the house. 

“ It is theirs for four-and-tw'enty hours,” said 
he, “ and I should be like the black dog in their 
eyes if I went in.” So when he caught sight 
of Josephine he said: “Ah, this will do: here 
is one of them, I’ll tell her !” 

He followed her accordingly into the park : 
but it was not so easy to catch her,— she flew. 


78 


WHITE LIES. 


“Want my cavalry to come up with this one,” [ 
muttered Kaynal. He took his scabbard in his 
left hand and ran after her : she was, however, 
still many yards in advance of him when she 
entered a small building which is not new' to us, 
though it was so to Raynal. He came up and 
had his foot on the very step to go in, when he 
was arrested by that he heard wdthin. 

Josephine was praying aloud : praying to the 
Virgin with sighs and sobs and all her soul : 
W'restling so in prayer w'ith a dead saint as 
by a strange perversity men can not or w-ill 
not wrestle with Him who alone can hear a 
million prayers at once from a million different 
places, can realize and be touched w'ith a sense 
of all man’s infirmities in a way no single saint 
with his partial experience of them can realize 
and be touched by them, who unasked suspended 
the law's of nature that had taken a stranger’s 
only son, and she a widow, — who wept at human 
sorrow w’hile the eyes of all the great saints that 
stood around it and Him were dry. 

The soldier stood, his right foot on the step 
and his sword in his left hand, transfixed : lis- 
tening gravely to the agony of prayer the inno- 
cent young creature poured forth within. 

“ O Mother of God ! hear me : it is for my 
mother’s life. She will die, — she will die! You 
know she can not live if she is taken aw'ay from 
her house, and from this holy place, where she 
prays to you this many years. O Queen of 
Heaven ! put out your hand to us unfortunates ! 
Virgin, hear a virgin ! — mother, listen to a child 
who prays for her mother’s life ! The doctor says 
she will not live aw'ay from here. She is too old 
to wander over the world. Let them drive us 
forth : w'e are young, but not her, mother, oh, 
not her I Forgive the cruel men that do this 
thing! — they are like those who crucified your 
Son, — they know not what they are doing. But 
you. Queen of Heaven, you know all : and, sweet 
mother, if you have kind sentiments towards mo, 
the poor Josephine, oh! show them now: for 
you know it w'as I who insulted that wicked 
notary, and it is out of hatred to me he has sold 
our beloved house to a hard stranger. Look 
down on me, a child who loves her mother, yet 
will destroy her unless you pity me and help 
me. O my God, what shall I say ? what shall 
I do ? mercy ! mercy ! for my poor mother, for 
me !” 

Here her prayer was broken by sobs. 

The soldier withdrew his foot quietly. Thought 
he, “It is hardly the part of a man to listen to 
this poor girl; besides, I have heard enough: 
her words knock against my breast-bone : let me 
reflect.” And he marched slowly to and fro be- 
fore the chapel, upright as a dart and stiff as a 
ramrod. 

Josephine's voice was heard again in prayer. 

Raynal looked at his watch. “ She does not 
finish,” said he, quaintly. 

Josephine little thought who was her sentinel 
before the chapel. She came to the door at last, 
and there he was marching backwards and for 
wards upright and stiff. Sue gave a faint scream 
and drew back with a shudder. 

Not being very quick at interpreting emotion, 
Raynal notieed her alarm, but not her repug- 
nance ; he saluted her with military precision by 
touching his cap as only a soldier can. 

“ A word with you, mademoiselle !” 


“ With me, monsieur? what can you have to 
say to me ?” and she began to tremble. 

“Don’t be frightened!” said Raynal, in a 
tone not very re-assuring. “ I propose an armis- 
tice, — a conference.” 

“I am at your disposal, monsieur,” said 
Josephine, assuming a calmness that was belied 
by the long sw'ell of her heaving bosom. 

“ You must not bo afraid of me, my young lady, 
— there is nothing to be afraid of.” 

“No, monsieur; I am not frightened, — not 
much frightened, — but you are a stranger to me 
—and—” 

“And an enemy.” 

“We have no right to hate you, sir. You 
did not. know us. You just wanted an estate, I 
suppose — and — oh ! — ” 

“ Let us come to the point, since I am a man 
of few words.” 

“If you please. My mother may miss me.” 

“I was in position on the flank when the no- 
tary delivered his fire.” 

“Yes.” 

“I saw the old woman’s distress.” 

“Ah! monsieur.” 

“And I said to myself, ‘This Beaurepaire 
campaign begins unluckily.’” 

“ It was kind even to care that much for our 
feelings.” 

“ When you came flying out I followed to say 
a word to you. I could not catch you. I listen- 
ed while you prayed to the Virgin. That was 
not a soldier-like trick, you will say. I confess 
it.” 

“I am not angry, monsieur, and you heard 
nothing I blush for.” 

“No! by St. Denis, — quite the contrary. 
Well, — to the point. Young lady, you love your 
mother !” 

“ What has she on earth but her children’s 
love ?” 

“ Young lady, I had a mother ; I loved her, 
my young lady. She promised me faithfully not 
to die till I should be a colonel, — and she went 
and died before I was a commandant even ; just 
before, too.” 

“ Then I pity you,” murmured Josephine. 

“She pities me ! What a wonderful thing a 
word is ! No one has been able to find the right 
word to say to me till to-day. ‘ Ah ! bah !’ says 
one. ‘ Old people will die,’ says another.” 
“Oh!” 

“Take a young one and forget her!’ that is 
the favorite cry of all, mademoiselle.” 

“Certainly a person of monsieur’s merit need 
never want a young woman, but that is different, 
— it is wicked to talk so.” 

“For all that, you are the only one that has 
said, ‘ I pity you !’ ” 

“I pity you!” repeated Josephine, her soft 
purple eyes beginning to dwell on him instead 
of turning from him. 

“ Shall I tell you about her and me,” said 
Raynal, eagerly. 

“ I shall be honored,” said Josephine, politely. 

Then he told her all about how he had vexed 
her when he was a boy, and gone for a soldier 
though she was all for trade ; and how ho had 
been the more anxious to see her enjoy his hon- 
ors and success. 

“And, mademoiselle,” said ho, appealingly, 

“ the day this epaulette was put on my shoulder 


WHITE LIES. 


7‘J 


in Italy, she died in Paris. Ah ! how could you 
liave the heart to do that, my old woman?” 

The soldier’s mustache quivered, and he turned 
away brusquely, and took several steps. Then 
he came back to Josephine. 

“Monsieur,” said she, tenderly, “she would 
have lived if she could, to please you, not her- 
self, — it is I who tell you so.” 

“I believe it,” cried Raynal, a light breaking 
in on him : “ how can you read my mother ? you 
never saw her!” 

“ Perhaps I see her in her son.” 

The purple eye had not been idle all this time. 

“You arc wonderfully quick,” said Raynal, 
looking at her with more and more surprise, — 
“and what is the matter?” Josephine’s eyes 
were thick with tears. “What? you are within 
an inch of crying for my mother,' — you who have 
your own trouble at this hour.” 

“Monsieur, our situations are so alike I may 
well spare some little sympathy for your mis- 
fortune.” 

“Thank you, my good young lady; well, 
then, while you were praying to the Virgin, I was 
saj'ing a word or two for my part to her who is 
no more.” 

“Ah!” 

“ Oh, it was nothing beautiful like the things 
you said to the other. Can I turn phrases? no ! 
I saw her behind her counter in the Rue Quin- 
campoix : for she is a woman of the people is 
my mother. I saw myself come to the other 
side of the counter, and I said, ‘ Look here, 
mother, here is the devil to pay about this new 
house. Here is the old woman talks of dying 
if we take her from her home, and the young 
one weeps and prays to all the saints in Para- 
dise. What shall we do, — eh?’ Then my old 
woman said to me, ‘Jean, you are a soldier, a 
sort of vagabond, though not by my will. But, 
at least be what you are ! What do you want with 
a house in France? you who are always in a 
tent in Italy or Austria, or who knows where ? 
Have you the courage to give honest folk so 
much pain for a caprice? 3'our fine chateau isn’t 
worth it, my lad, it is I who tell you so. 
Come now,’ says she, ‘the lady is of my age, 
say you, and I can’t keep your fine house, be- 
cause God has willed it otherwise : so give her 
my place ; so then you can fancy it is me 3^11 
have set down at your hearth : that will warm 
your heart up a bit, little scamp, go to,’ said 
my old woman, in her rough wa3% She was 
not well-bred like you, mademoiselle. A woman 
of the people, — Rue Quincampoix.'^ 

“ She was a woman of God’s own making,” 
cried Josephine, the tears now running down her 
cheeks. 

“That she was! so between her and me it is 
settled — what arc you crying for now ? wh3^, you 
have won the day : the field is yours : 3'Our moth- 
er and you remain. I decamp.” He whipped 
his scabbard up with his left hand and was off 
probably for years, perhaps forever, if Josephine 
liad not stopped him, 

“But, monsieur, what am I to think? what 
am I to hope ? it is impossible that in this short 
interview — and we must not forget what is due 
to 3'ou. You have bought the estate.” 

“ True I well, we will talk of that to-morrow : 
the house to-da3' — that was the bayonet-thrust 
to the old woman.” 


“ Ah ! 3^es ; but, monsieur !” 

“Silence in the ranks!” cried he, sharply : 
“ mind, I am more used to command than listen 
in this district !” 

“ Monsieur, I will obey 3^11,” said Josephine, 
a little fluttered. 

Ra3mal checked her alarm. 

“ The order is that you run in and put the old 
lady’s heart at rest. Tell her that she may live 
and die here for Jean Raynal : above all, tell her 
about the old woman in the Rue Quincaiupoix : 
only put it in 3’our own charming phrases, you 
know.” 

“Heaven forbid! I go. God bless 3'Ou, 
Monsieur Ray nail” 

“Are you going?” said he, peremptorily. 

“ Oh yes !” and she darted towards the chateau. 

Now when she had taken three steps, she 
paused, and seemed irresolute. She turned, and 
in a moment she glided to Raynal again and had 
taken his hand before he could hinder her, and 
pressed two velvet lips on it, and was awaj" 
again, her cheeks scarlet at what she had done, 
and her wet eyes beaming with joy. She skim- 
med the grass like a lapwing — you would have 
taken her at this moment for Laure, or for Vir- 
gil’s Camilla : at the gate she turned an instant 
and clasped her hands together, to show Ra3mal 
she blessed him again, then darted into the house. 

“ Aha ! my gaillarde,'' said he, as he watched 
her fly, “behold you changed a little since you 
came out.” He wms soon on the high-road 
marching down to the town at a great rate, his 
sw'ord clanking, and thus ran his thoughts : 

“This does one good — you are right, m3^ old 
woman. My bosom feels as warm as a toast. 
Long live the five-franc pieces ! And they pre- 
tend money can not make a fellow happy. They 
lie ! It is that they don’t know how to spend it ! 
Good Heavens ! one o’clock ! a whole morning 
gone talking.” 

Meantime at the chateau, as still befalls in 
emergencies and trials, the master-spirit came 
out and took its real place. 

Laure was now the mistress of Beaurepaire. 

She set Jacintha, and Dard, and the doctor, 
to pack up every thing of value in the house. 

“Do it this moment, ” shecried; “once that 
notary gets possession of the house it will be too 
late.” 

“But have we the right?” asked St. Aubin. 

“Do it,” was the sharp reply. “Enough of 
: folly and helplessness. We have fooled away 
house and lands : our movables shall not follow 
them.” 

Having set the others to w'ork, she wrote a 
h.asty line to Riviere to tell him the chateau and 
lands were sold, and with this letter she ran her- 
self to Bigot’s auberge, the nearest post-office, 
and then she ran back to comfort her mother. 

The baroness was seated in her arm-chair, moan- 
ing and wringing her hands, and Laure was nurs- 
ing and soothing her, and bathing her temples 
with her last drop of eau de Cologne, and trying 
in vain to put some of her own courage into her, 
when in came Josephine radiant with happiness, 

' crying “Joy! joy! joy!” and told her strange 
I tale much as I have told it, with this exception, 

; that she related her own share in it briefly and 
coldly, and was more eloquent than I about the 
strange soldier’s goodness, and the interest her 


80 


WHITE LIES. 


inotlier had awakened in liis heart. And she 
tuIJ about the old woman in the Hue Quincam- 
})oix, iier rugged phrases and her noble, tender 
lieart: and she ascribed all to the Virgin. 

“ Heaven is on our side, my mother. Courage, 
my mother !” 

The baroness, deaf to Laure, brightened up 
directly at Josephine’s news, and her glowing 
face as she knelt before her mother, pouring the 
good news, and hope, and comfort, point-blank 
into her face, as well as her heart. But Laure 
chilled them both. 

“It is a generous offer, ’’said she; “but one we 
can not accept.” 

“Not accept it,” cried the baroness, with dis- 
may. 

“ We can not live under so great an obligation. 
Is all the generosity to bo on the side of tiiis 
Bonapartist? — we are then noble in name only. 
What would our father have said to such a pro- 
posal ?” 

Josephine hung her head. The baroness 
groaned. 

“ No ! my mother, let house and land go, but 
honor and true nobility remain.” 

“ What shall I do? you are cruel to me, my 
daughter.” 

“ Mamma,” cried the enthusiastic girl, “ we 
need depend on no one. Josephine and I have 
youth and spirit, and you have money.” 

“ Wc have no money. We are beggars!” 

“ We have a hundred thousand francs.” 

“ A hundred thousand francs? Are you mad ?” 

“No, mamma: our debts were two hundred 
and twenty-five thousand francs. But the es- 
tate, owing to the increase of the rents, has sold 
for two hundred and ninety-five thousand francs.” 

“ How can you know what it sold for?” 

“ Edouard’s letter told us his notary would 
not let it go for less. Seventy thousand francs, 
therefore, of the purchase-money is ours. And 
we have movables worth thirty- thousand francs. 
With a portion of this money, if you will permit 
me, I will take alarm. By-the-by, there arc one 
thousand francs in the house too.” 

“ A fiirm !” shrieked the baroness. 

“ Edouard’s uncle has a farm, and we have had 
recourse to him for help.” 

“ Ah ! behold the key of the enigma,” said the 
baroness, satirically. “ It is the child’s lover who 
has been speaking to us all this time, not herself. 
A farm-house ! I prefer the grave !” 

“Better a farm-house than an alms-house,” 
cried Laure, “ though that alms-house were pal- 
ace instead of chateau!” 

Josephine winced, and held up her hand dcp- 
rccatingly. 

The baroness paled : it was a terrible stroke 
of language to come from her daughter. 

She said sternly : 

“ There is no answer to that. We were born 
nobles, let us die farmers : only permit me to ' 
die the first.” 

“Forgive me, my mother,” said Laure, kneel- 
ing. “ I was wrong — it is for me to obey yon — 
not to dictate. I speak no more.” And, after 
ki.ssitig her mother and Josephine, she crept hum- 
bly away. I 

“ The moment they have a lover he detaches | 
their hearts from their poor old mother. She is * 
not to mo now what my Josephine is.” 1 

“ Mamma, she is my superior. I see it more ' 


and more every day. She is proud : she is just. 
She looks at both sides. Your poor Josephine 
is too a])t to see only those she loves !” 

“And that is the daughter for me!” cried 
the baroness, opening her arms wide to her. 

Josephine nestled to her, and soothed her all 
day, and kept telling her Heaven was on their 
side, and she should never have to leave Beaure- 
paire. 

“ Let me temporize,” thought Josephine, “and 
keep her happy : that is the first consideration.” 

The next morning when they were at break- 
fast, in came Jacintha to say the officer was in 
the dining-room, and wanted to speak with the 
young lady he talked to yesterday. Josephine 
rose and went to him. 

“Well, mademoiselle,” said he, gayly “the 
old woman was right. Here I have just got my 
orders to march : to leave France in a month. A 
pretty business it would have been if I had turn- 
ed your mother out. So you see there is noth- 
ing to hinder you from living here.” 

“ In your house, monsieur ?” 

“ Why not ? Arc you too proud ?” 

“Forgive us! It is a fault that should not 
survive our fortunes.” 

“Well, but — yesterday.” 

“I have reflected. I was unjust.” 

“ If such an offer was made to my mother, 
instead of yours, I should not be too proud to 
take it ; but it seems you belong to the nobility. 
Now I rose from the ranks ; so I have no right 
to be proud.” 

Kaynal said this inadvertently, and in good 
faith. But the quicker Josephine read it sa- 
tirically and ironically. She colored up. 

“ Forgive me, sir, if I have offended you. It 
was as far from my intention as from your merit.” 

There was a pause. 

“Oh, your delicacy does not surprise me, 
neither. I can understand it.” 

“I am sure you can.” 

Another pause. 

^ “ Confound it,” roared Raynal, angrily, “ why 
did I go and buy the house ? — I didn’t want it.”" 

“ Some other would have bought it, some one 
more severe, less considerate than you, mon- 
sieur. I beg you to believe that it is a great 
comfort to us not to be removed with an unkind 
hand from so beloved a jdace.” 

There was another silence. Baynal was puz- 
zled. He sentinelled Brittany as represented by 
a bad map that hung on the wall. Josephine 
eyed him furtively, in secret anxiety, as he 
marched to and fro. 

Ail this time she had been saying what she 
felt she ought to say, in hopes that the man 
would do his part, and pooh-pooh her, and car- 
ry out his scheme for her good in spite of her 
teeth’ — her tongue, rather. For to decline the 
thing we want, and so not only get it, but have 
it forced upon us ; the advantage of having it 
plus the credit of refusing it, is delicious : is it 
not, mesdames ? and well worth risking all for : 
is it not, mesdames ? 

Now Kaynal was a man, a creature not ac- 
customed to disguise its wishes, and therefore 
apt to misinterpret such as do ; above all, he 
was an honest man. A word from him was a 
thing, the exact thing he meant. So he took 
for granted Josephine was saying exactly what 
she meant, and she nonjdussed him. 


WHITE LIES. 


81 


When she saw her success, she wislied she 
had declined more faintly, and the interview 
was to recommence. 

Had it recommenced, she would have done 
just the same over again : it was not in her 
blood to do any other. Luckily llaynal’s brown 
study resulted in a fresh idea. 

“1 have it,” said he, “this must be settled 
by a third party, a mutual friend, some one more 
skillful than I, and who can arrange this trifle so 
as not to shock your delicacy. I am no diplo- 
matist.” 

Raynal interrupted himself by suddenly open- 
ing a window and shouting : 

“ Halloa ! come here, — you are wanted.” 

Josephine almost screamed : “ What are you 
doing, monsieur ; that is our enemy, our bitter- 
est enemy. He only sold you the estate to spite 
us, not for the love of you. I had — he had — 
we mortified his vanity. It was not our fault — 
he is a viper. Oh, sir, pray be on your guard 
against his counsels.” 

These words, spoken with great fire and earn- 
estness,*carried conviction, and when the notary 
came in, the contrast between the invitation that 
brought him and the reception that met him 
twenty seconds after was droll. 

Perrin started at sight of Josephine, and Ray- 
nal hardly knew what to say to him. Whilst 
he hesitated, the notary, little suspecting what 
had occurred, began : 

“ So you have taken possession, monsieur. 
These military men are prompt, are they not, 
mademoiselle ?” 

“Do not speak to me, monsieur,” said Jose- 
phine, quietly. 

“ Why not ? We ought to entertain our 
guests.” 

“Mademoiselle is at home,” said Ilaynal, 
sternly ; “ address her with respect, or she will 
perhaps order you out.” 

“She is very capable, monsieur,” said the no- 
tary, “ but luckily she has no one to order.” 

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Raynal. 

The notary looked round uneasily, expecting to 
see young Riviere. He turned the conversation. 

“’^Mademoiselle,” said he in a mere tone of 
business, “it is my duty as M. Raynal’s agent 
to inform you, that whatever movables you have 
removed are yours ; those that w'e find in the 
house upon entering are ours ;” and he grinned. 

“ And as we are not going to enter for a week 
or two, if at all, you will have plenty of time to 
shift your chairs and tables,” explained Raynal. 

“Monsieur,” said the notary, “really I do 
not understand you. Have I done any thing to 
merit this ? Have I served you so ill that you 
withdraw your confidence from me?” 

“No,” said Raynal, “but you exceed your 
powers, my lad. I command, — 3'ou obey.” 

“ So be it, monsieur. What are your orders, 
and what on earth is the meaning of all this?” 

“ The meaning is this. I want mademoiselle 
and her family to stay here while I go to Egypt 
with the First Consul. Mademoiselle makes 
difficulties, — it offends her delicacy.” 

^^Couiedie!" 

“Though her mother’s life depends on her 
staying here.” 

“ Comedie!'' 

“Her pride is like to be too much for her af- 
fection.” 


“Farce!” 

“ I pitched upon you to reconcile the two.” 

“ Then you pitched upon the wrong man,” 
said Perrin, bluntly. He added obsequiousl}*, 
“ I am too much your friend.” 

Raynal frowned. 

“1 will never abet you in such a sin. She 
has been talking you over, no doubt ; but you 
have a friend, an Ulysses, who is deaf to the 
siren’s voice. I will be no party to such a trans- 
action. I will not co-operate to humbug my 
friend and rob him of his rights.” 

“ Then be off, that’s a good soul, and send 
me a more accommodating notary.” 

“ A more accommodating notary !” screamed 
Perrin, stung to madness by this reproach. 
“ There is not a more accommodating notary in 
Europe. Ungrateful man ! is this the return 
for all my zeal, my integrit}’’, my unselfishness ? 
Is there another agent in the world who would 
liave let such a bargain as Beauropaire fitll into 
j-our hands? Oh! it serves me right for devia- 
ting from the rules of business. Send me an- 
other agent — oh ! ! ! !” 

The honest soldier was confused. The law- 
yer’s eloquence overpowered him. He felt guilty. 
Josephine saw his simplicity, and made a cut 
with a woman’s two-edged sword. 

“ Monsieur,” said she, coldly, “do j'ou not see 
it is an affair of money ? This is a way of say- 
ing, pay me double the usual charge!” 

“ And I’ll pay him double !” cried Raynal, 
catching the idea; “don’t be alarmed. I’ll pay 
3’ou handsomely.” 

“And my zeal — my devotion ?” 

“Put ’em in figures, my lad.” 

“And my prob — ?” 

“ Add it up 1 ” 

“ And my integ — ?” 

“Add them all together, — and don’t bother 
me.” 

“ I see I I sec ! my poor soldier. You arc no 
match for a woman’s tongue.” 

“Nor a notary’s ! Go to h — , and send in your 
bill,” roared the soldier, in a fuiy. “Well, will 
3’ou go, or must I — ” And he marched at him. 

The notary scuttled out, with something be- 
tween a snarl and a squeak. 

Josephine hid her face in her hands. 

“What is the matter with j’ou? Crying 
again ? Well, it is you for crying.” 

“ Me ! monsieur. I never cry — hardly. No! 
I hid my face because — he ! he !” 

“Haw! haw!” 

“You frightened me, monsieur,” said Joseph- 
ine, suddenly assuming a small reproachful air. 
“I was afraid you would beat him.” 

“ No ! no ! a good soldier never leathers a civ- 
iliati, if he can possibly help it, — it looks so bad : 
and before a lady I You must not think I know 
nothing.” 

“I would have forgiven you, monsieur,” said 
Josephine, with tender benignity', and something 
like a little sun danced in her eye. 

“ Now, mademoiselle, since my friend has 
proved a pig, it is your turn. Choose you a 
friend.” 

“ We have but one fit, and he is so young. 
Ah ! how stupid I am. You know him ! Mon- 
sieur is doubtless the commandant of whom I 
once heard him speak with so much admiration, 
— his name is Riviere, — Edouard Riviere.” 


6 


82 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Know him ’ he is mv best officer ; out and 
out.” 

“ Ah, I am so glad. Would it be derogatory 
on the [lart of monsieur to admit one so young 
and in a subordinate position ?” 

“ Ah, bah ! It is not I who makes difficul- 
ties ; it is you. liiviere be it. But where is be ? 
for I liave given the young dog leave of ab- 
sence.” 

“ lie is at a farm-house near Rennes, at his 
uncle’s.” 

“Well, I am going home, I will send him a 
note. We will confer, and we will arrange this 
mighty affair. My general would settle a king- 
dom in tlie time we take. Meantime tell the old 
lady to pluck up spirit. My mother used to say, 
‘A faint heart makes its own troubles.’” 

“ Oh, what a wise saying !” 

“ Say we are none of us dead yet, nor like to 
bo, an,d, mademoiselle, let me hear you say cour- 
nge ?” 

“ Courage !” 

“ Yes ! only just six times as loud and hearty, 

‘ Courage.’ ” 

“ How good he is, ‘ Courage !’ — there !” 

“Good! on that behold me gone.” Clink, 
clank, clank, clink, clatter, clatter, clank. 

Josephine came into the saloon radiant. 

“Well! well!” was the cry. 

“Mamma, he offered us the house again; I 
declined, Laure — oh yes, I declined firmly.” 

“Are you mad, my poor Josephine?” cried 
tlie barone.ss, in dismay. 

“No, mamma! then he proposed to refer all 
tills to a third person, and he tried Monsieur Per- 
rin. The man arrived just in time to reveal his 
nature, and be dismissed with ignominy.” 

General exultation. 

“ Then he was so good as to let me choose a 
referee, and I chose Edouard Riviere.” 

This announcement caused a great sensa- 
tion. 

“ He is very young,” demurred the baroness, 

but you know more of him than I do.” 

“I know this, that he will not let you be turn- 
ed out of Beaurepaire !” 

“Tiien I shall love him well.” 

“ Is that a promise, my mother?” 

“ That it is !” 

“ A promise made to your Josephine before 
these witnesses ?” 

“ A promise made to my Josephine,” said she ; 
and she looked at Laure. 

That young lady kept her eyes steadily down 
on her work. 

The notary went home gnashing his tcclli. 
His whole life of success was turned to worm- 
wood this day. Raynal’s jiarting commissions 
rang in his ear; in his bitter mood the want of 
logical sequence in the two orders disgusted him. 

He inverted them. 

He sent in a thundering bill the very next 
morning, and postponed tlw other commission 
till his dying day. 

Edouard Riviere was with diffieulty prevailed 
On to stay the rest of the evening at his uncle’s. 
Sorrow for his friends, and mortification at his | 
own defeat weighed him down. ! 

Ho shook hands with his uncle, and flunghim- ' 
self recklessly on his horse ; tltc horse, being 


rather fresh, bolted off with him as soon as he 
touched the saddle. 

Some fool had left a wheelbarrow on his road ; 
and just as Edouard was getting his foot into the 
off stirrup the horse shied violently, ana threw 
Edouard on the stones of the courtyard. He 
jumped up in a moment and laughed at Marthe’s 
terror ; meantime a farm-servant caught the 
nag and brought him back to his work. 

When Edouard went to put his hand on the 
saddle, he found it would not obey him. “ Wait 
a minute, — my arm is benumbed.” 

“Let me see!” said the farmer, himself ; 
“benumbed? yes; and no wonder, poor boy. 
Jacques, get on his horse and ride for the sur- 
geon !” 

“ Are you mad, uncle ?” cried Edouard. “ I 
can’t spare my horse, and I want no surgeon : it 
will be well directly.” 

“ It will be worse before it is better, my poor 
lad.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, uncle; it is 
only numbed ; ah ! it hurts when I rub it.” 

“It is worse than numbed, Edouard: it is 
broken !” 

“Broken, uncle? nonsense;” and he looked 
at it in piteous bewilderment. “How can it be 
broken ? it does not hurt, except when I touch 
it.” 

“ It will hurt : I know all about it. I broke 
mine fifteen years ago: fell off’ a haystack.” 

“ Oh, how unfortunate I am ! But I will go 
to Beaurepaire all the same. I can have it 
mended thei’e as well as here.” 

“ You will go to bed : that is where you will 
go.” 

“ I’ll go to blazes sooner.” 

The old man made a signal to his myrmidons, 
whom Marthe's exclamation had brought around, 
and four stout fellows took hold of Edouard by 
the legs and the left shoulder, and carried him 
up-stairs raging and kicking, and deposited him 
on a bed. 

He began to feel faint, and that made him 
more reasonable. 

They cut his coat off, and put him in a loose 
wrapper, and after a considerable delay the sur- 
geon came and set his arm skillfully, and behold 
this ardent spirit caged. 

He chafed and fretted and retarded his cure. 
And oh ! he was so peevish and fretful. Passive 
fortitude, he did not know what it meant. 

It was two days after his accident. He was 
lying on his back environed by slops, cursing his 
evil fate, and fretting his soul out of its fleshlv 
prison, Avhen suddenly he heard a cheerful troin- 
hone saying three words to Marthe, then came a 
clink clank, and Marthe ushered into the sick- 
room the Commandant Raynal. The sick man 
raised himself in bed, with great surprise and 

joj- 

“0, commandant, this is kind to come and 
see your poor officer in hell!” 

“ Ah,” cried Raynal, “ you sec I know what 
it is. I have been chained down by the arm, 
and the leg, and all, — it is tiresome.” 

“Tiresome! it is — it is — Oh, dear command- 
ant, Heaven bless you for coming!” 

“La! la! la! Besides I am come on busi- 
ness.” 

“All the better. I have nothing to do — that 
is what kills me — but to cat my own heart.” 


WHITE LIES. 


83 


“Cannibal, go to. Well, iny lad, since you 
are in that humor, cheer up, for I bring you a 
job, and a tough one, — it has puzzled me.” 

“What is it, commandant? What is it?” 

“Well. Do you know a house and a family 
called Beaurepaire?” 

“Do I'know Beaurepaire?” 

^ 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“A LETTER for mademoiselle.” 

“ Ah !” 

“No, not for you. Mademoiselle Laure, for 
mademoiselle.” 

^[adeinoiselle: IBefore I could find iim^ to 
write to our referee^ news came in that he had just 
broken his arm, so I — ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! dear — our poor Edouard !” 

And if poor Edouard had seen the pale faces, 
and heard the faltering accents, it would have 
reconciled him to his broken arm almost. This 
hand grenade the commandant had dropped so 
coolly among them, it was a long time ere they 
could recover from it enough to read the rest of 
the letter : — 

T rode over to him, and found him on his hack, 
fretting for want of something to do. I told him 
the ichole storg. lie undertook the business. I 
have received his secret insti’uctions, and next week 
shall be at his quarters to clear off his arrears of 
business, and make acquaintance with all your fami- 
hj, if they permit. Raynal.” 

As the latter part of this letter seemed to re- 
rjnire a reply, the baroness wrote a polite note, 
and Jacintha sent Dard to leave it for the com- 
mandant at Riviere’s lodgings. But first they 
all sat down and wrote kind and pitying and 
soothing letters to Edouard. Need I say these 
letters fell upon him like balm ? 

Next week Raynal called on the baroness. 
She received him alone. They talked about 
Madam Raynal. The next day he dined with 
the whole party, and the commandant’s manners 
were the opposite of what the baroness had in- 
culcated. But she had a strong prejudice in his 
favor. Had her feelings been the other way, his 
brusquene would have shocked her. It amused 
her. If people’s hearts are with you, that for 
their heads ! In common with them all, she ad- 
mired his frank and manly sincerity. He came 
every day for a week, chatted with the baroness, 
walked with the young ladies, and when, after 
work, he came over in the evening, Laure used to 
cross-examine him ; and out came such descrip- 
tions of battles and sieges, such heroism and 
such simplicity mixed, as made the evening pass 
delightfully. On these occasions the young la- 
dies fixed their glowing eyes on him, and drank 
in his character as well as his narrative, in which 
were fewer “I's” than in any thing of the sort 
you ever read. 

Thus they made acquaintance and learned to 
know and esteem him. 

Josephine said to her mother : ‘ ‘ Tell me, mam- 
ma, arc there many such men in the world ?” 


I “ He is charming,” replied the old lady, some- 
what vaguely. 

“ He is a man of crystal : he never says a 
word he does not mean.’"’ 

“ Why, Josephine !” said Laure, “have you 
not observed he always means more than he 
says, and does more?” 

“I wish I was like him,” sighed Josephine. 

“No, I thank you,” said the baroness, hasti- 
ly, “ he is a man : a thorough man. He would 
make an intolerable woman. A fine life if one 
had a parcel of women about one all blurting 
out their real minds every moment, and never 
smoothing matters.” 

“Mamma what a horrid ijicture !” cried 
Laure. 

“Josephine,” said the baroness, “you are the 
favorite, I think ?” 

“Oh no! mamma, you are the fiivorite, you 
know.” 

“Well: .perhaps I am,” and she smiled. 
“But he has already opened the subject with 
you, never with me.” 

Jacintha came in and interrupted the conver- 
sation: “Mademoiselle, the commandant is in 
the Pleasance.” 

“Well?” 

“He would be glad to speak to you.” 

“I will come.” 

“ How droll he is !” said Laure ; “ fancy his 
sending for a young lady like that : he is like 
nobody else. Don’t go, Josephine: how he 
would stare.” 

“ My dear, I no more dare disobey him than 
if I was one of his soldiers.” 

“Well, go to your commanding officer. ’ 

“He comes apropos. I was just going to tell 
you to ask him wliat Edouard has proposed about 
Beaurepaire.” 

“ I will try, mamma. But indeed I hope he 
will speak first, for what else can he want me 
for?” 

After the first salutation there was a certain 
hesitation about Raynal which Josephine had 
never seen a trace of in him before. So to put 
him at his ease, and at the same time please her 
mother, she began : 

“Monsieur, has our friend Edouard been able 
to suggest any thing ?” 

“What, don’t you know that I have been act- 
ing all along upon his instructions?” 

“No indeed! and you have not told us what 
he advised !” 

“Told you? why, of course not, — they were 
secret instructions.” 

“And do you mean to obey them ?” 

“To the letter! I have obeyed one set, and 
now I come to the other, and there is the diffi- 
culty.” 

“But is not this inverting the order of things 
for you to obey that boy ?” 

“A man is no soldier unless he can obey as 
well as command, and in every thing somebody 
must command. He is very shrewd in these 
matters, that boy ; and my only fear is that I 
shall fall short in carrying out his orders, — not 
from want of good-will, but of skill and experi- 
ence.” 

Josephine looked thoroughly mystified. 

I “ You sec, mademoiselle, it is a kind of warffiro 
I know nothing about.” 

‘ “It must be savage warfare then?” 


8-t 


WHITE LIES. 


“No, it is not. I don't know how to begin : 
by all the devils I am afraid I ” and he stared 
with surprise at himself. 

“That must be a new sensation to you, mon- 
sieur ! I think I understand you : you fear a 
repulse, you meditate some act of singular deli- 
cacy ?” 

No ! rather the reverse !” 

“ Of generosity then ?” 

“No, by St. Denis! Confound the young 
dog, why is he not here to help me ?” 

“But after all you have only to carry out his 
instructions.” 

“That is true! that is true ! but when one is 
a coward, a poltroon.” 

This repeated assertion of cowardice on the 
part of the living Damascus blade that stood 
bolt upright before her struck Josephine as so 
funny that she laughed merrily. 

“Fancy it is only a fort you are attacking in- 
stead of the terrible me — he ! he !” 

“Thank you,” cried Raynal warmly, “you 
are very good to put in an encouraging word like 
that !” and the soldier rallied visibly. “ Allans V' 
he cried, “ it is only a fort — mademoiselle !” 

“Monsieur!” 

“Hum! will you lend me your hand a mo- 
ment ?” 

“ ]My hand, what for ? — there,” and she put 
it out an inch a minute. 

He took hold of it. 

“A charming hand! the hand of a virtuous 
woman ?” 

“ Yes !” said Josephine, as cool as a cucum- 
ber, too sublimely and absurdly innocent even to 
blush. 

“Is it your own ?” 

“Monsieur!” — she blushed at that, I can 
tell you. 

“ Because, if it was, I would ask you to give 
it me. I’ve done it !” 

Josephine whipped it off his palm, where it 
lay like cream spilt on a table. 

“ Ah ! I see, you are not free : you have a 
lover ?” 

“No! no!” cried Josephine, in distress, “I 
love nobody but my mother and my sister: I 
never shall.” | 

“Ah! your mother! that reminds me. He 
told me to ask her ; by Jove, I think he told me ' 
to ask her first and he up with his scabbard 
and ran off. , 

Josephine begged him not to. | 

“ I can save you the trouble,” said she. 

“ Oh, I don’t mind a little trouble. My in- 
structions! my instructions!” and he ran into j 
the house. 

Laure came out the next moment, for the sol- 
dier had demanded a ike-a-tete abruptly. 

She saw her sister walking pensively, and ran 
to her. 

“ 0, Laure, he has ! ! ! !” 

“ Heaven forbid !” | 

“It is not his fault ; it is your Edouard who 
set him to do it.” 

“My Edouard? Don’t talk in that horrid 
way ; I have no Edouard. You said ‘ no,’ of 
course.” i 

“ Something of the kind.” ^ 

“Something of the kind! What, did you 
not say ‘ no ’ plump ?” 

“ I did not s.ay it brutally, dear.” 


“ Josephine, you frighten me. I know you 
can’t say ‘no ’ to any one ; and if you don’t say 
‘ no ’ plump to such a man as this, you might as 
well say ‘ yes.’ ” 

“ Indeed I said nothing that could be con- 
strued into consent.” 

This did not quite satisfy Laure, and she di- 
lated on the advantages of a plump “negative,” 
and half scolded Jt>sephine for not having learn- 
ed to say “no” plump to any body. 

“Well, love,” said Josephine, “our mother 
will relieve me of all this. What a comfort to 
have a mother !” 

“ Oh yes, but why lean on her ? You arc al- 
ways for leaning on somebody.” 

“ What, may not I lean on my own mother ?” 

“ No ; learn to lean on nobody — but me.” 

Raynal came out of the house, and walked up 
to the sisters. 

Laure seized Josephine, and held her tight, 
and cast hostile glances. 

“ Now hold your tongue, Josephine ; you can’t 
say ‘ no ’ plump ; leave it to me.” 

“ With all my heart,” said Josephine. 

“ Monsieur,” said Laure, before he could 
speak, “ even if she had not declined, we could 
not consent, — so you see.” 

“I have no instructions to ask your consent,” 
said Raynal, brusquely. 

Laure colored high. 

“ Is her own consent to be dispensed with too ? 
She declined the honor, did she not?” 

“Of course she did ; but my instructions are, 
not to take the first two or three refusals.” 

“ O, Josephine, it is that insolent boy who 
sets him on !” 

“Insolent boy!” cried Raynal, angrily; “ w’hy, 
it is the referee of your own choosing, and as well- 
behaved a lad as ever I saw, and a zealous officer.” 

“ My friends,” put in Josephine, with a sweet 
languor, “I can not let you quarrel about a 
straw. ” 

“ It is not a straw,” said Raynal, “ it is you.” 

“ The distinction involves a compliment. 
Laure, you who are so shrewd, is it possible you 
do not see Monsieur Raynal’s strange proposal 
in its true light? This generous man has no 
personal feeling in this eceentric proceeding : he 
wishes to make us all happy, especially my 
mother, without seeming to lay us under too 
great an obligation. Surely good-nature was 
never carried so far before. Ah ! monsieur, I 
will encumber you with my friendship forever, 
if you permit me, but further than that I will 
not abuse your generosity.” 

“Now look hero, mademoiselle,” began Ray- 
nal, bluntly, “I did start with a good motive 
at first, that I confess. But since I have been 
every day in your company, and seen how good 
and kind you are to all about you, I have turn- 
ed selfish ; and I say to myself, what a com- 
fort such a wife as you would be to a soldier ! 
Why, only to have you to write letters home to 
would be worth half a fellow’s pav. Do you 
know sometimes when I see the fellows writing 
their letters it gives me a knock here to think I 
have no one at all to write to.” 

“ Ah !” 

“ So you see I am not so disinterested. Now, 
mademoiselle, you speak so charmingl} I can’t 
tell what you mean. Can’t tell whether you say 
‘no’ bccauseyou could never like me, or whether 


WHITE LIES. 


85 


it is out of delicacy, and you only want pressing. 
So I say no more : it is a standing offer. Take 
a day to consider. Take two if you like. I 
must go to the barracks. By -the -by, your 
mother has consented, — good-day.” 

He was gone ere they could recover the amaze- 
ment his last words caused them. 

“Oh! this must be put an end to at once, 
Josephine.” 

“ Certainly, — if possible.” i 

“Will you speak to our mother, or shall I?” 

“ Oh, you !” 

“ Coward !” 

*‘No, love ; but you have always energy and 
will. I can’t burst out on great emergencies ; 
but I can not always be fighting.” 

“ Oh, my sister, and is not this a great emer- 
gency ?” 

“ Yes ; I ought to feel it one ; but I don’t, — 
\ can’t.” 

“ I can, then.” 

“That is fortunate. You then are the one to 
act. You settle it with my mother.” 

“ I will. Well, where are you going ?” 

“ Up stairs, love.” 

“ Wretch ! do you think I will go to our mother 
without you ?” 

“ As you please.” 

They entered the room, Laure asking herself 
in some agitation how she should begin. 

To their surprise they found the baroness walk- 
ing up and down the room with unusual alacrity. 
She no sooner caught sight of Josephine than 
she threw her arms open to her with joyful vi- 
vacity and kissed her warmly. 

“ My Josephine, it is you who save ns. I am 
a happy old woman. If I had all France to 
pick from I could not .ave found a man so 
worthy of my Josephine. He is brave, he is 
handsome, he is a rising man, he is a good son, 
and good sons make good husbands, — and — I 
shall die at Beaurepaire, shall I not, madame the 
commandante ?” 

Josephine held her mother round the neck, 
but never spoke. After a silence she held her 
tighter, and cried a little. 

“What is it?” asked the baroness, confiden- 
tially of Laure, but without showing mueh con- 
cern. 

“Mamma! mamma! she does not love 
him !” 

“ Love him ? Heaven forbid ! She would be 
no daughter of mine if she loved a man at sight. 
A modest woman loves her husband only.” 

“But she scarcely knows Monsieur Raynal.” 

“ She knows more of him than I knew of your 
father when I married him. She knows his 
virtues and appreciates them. I have heard her, 
have I not, love? Esteem soon ripens into love 
when they are once fairly married.” 

“ My mother, does her silence then tell you 
nothing ? Her tears,- — are they nothing to you ?” 

“ Silly child ! These are tears that do not 
scald. The sweet soul weeps because she now 
for the first time sees she will have to leave her 
mother. Alas ! my eldest, it is inevitable. This 
is Nature’s decree. Sooner or later the young 
birds must leave the parent nest. Mothers are 
not immortal. While they are here it is their 
duty to choose good husbands for their daugh- 
ters. My youngest chose for herself, — I consent- 
ed. But for my eldest I choose. We shall see 


^ which chose the best. Meantime we stay at 
Beaurepaire, — thanks to my treasure here.” 

“Josephine! Josephine! you say nothing,” 
cried Laure, in dismay. 

“ Dieu ! what can I say? I love my moth- 
er and I love you. You draw me different ways. 
I want you to be both happy.” 

“ Then, if you will not speak out, I must. My 
mother, do not deceive yourself : it is duty alone 
that keeps her silent; this match is odious to 
her.” 

“Then we are ruined! Josephine is this 
match odious to you ?” 

“ Not exactly odious, mother ; but I am very, 
very indifferent.” 

“ There !” cried Laure, triumphantly. 

“ Tliere ?” cried the baroness, in the same 
breath, triumphantly. “ She esteems his char- 
acter : but his person is indifferent to her : in 
other words, she is a modest girl, and my daugh- 
ter ; and let me tell you, Laure, that but for the 
misfortunes of our house, both my daughters 
would be married as I was, without knowing half 
as much of their husbands as Josephine knows 
of this brave, honest, generous, filial gentleman.” 

“ Gentleman !” 

“You are right; I should have said noble, by 
the heart.” 

“ Well, then, since she will not speak out, I 
will ! Pity me : I love her so. If this stranger, 
whom she does not love, mamma, takes her away 
from us, he will kill me. I shall die, — oh!” *• 

Josephine left her mother and went to console 
Laure. 

The baroness lost her temper at this last stroke 
of opposition. 

“ Now the truth comes out, Laure, this is self- 
1 ishness. Do not deceive yourself, — selfishness !” 

“ Mamma!” 

“You are only waiting to leave me yourself. 
Yet your eldest sister, forsooth, must be kept here 
for you! — till then.” She added more gently, 
“ Let me advise you to retire to your own room, 
and examine your heart fairly.” 

“I will.” 

“ You will find there is a strong dash of egoism 
in all this.” 

“ If I do—” 

“ You will retract your opposition.” 

“My heart won’t let me; but I will despise 
myself and be silent.” 

And the young lady who had dried her eyes 
the moment she was accused of selfishness walk- 
ed, head erect, from the room. Josephine cast 
a deprecating glance at her mother. 

“Yes, my angel!” said the latter, “I was 
harsh. But we are no longer of one mind, and 
I suppose never shall be again.” 

“Oh yes, we shall! be patient! My mother, 
you shall not leave Beaurepaire!” 

The bareness colored faintly at these four last 
words of her daughter, and hung her head. 

Josephine saw that, and darted to her and cov- 
ered her with kisses. 

“What have you been doing to your mother, 
dears? her pulse is very high.” 

“We had a discussion.” 

“ Then have no more discussions : we have 
tried her too much with our discussions lately. 
A little more of this agitation, and I foresee a 
palpitation of the heart.” 


8G 


WHITE LIES. 


“Oh, let me go to her!” cried Laure. 

“ On the contrary, do pray let her be quiet. I 
have sent her to lie down till dinner-time. But 
you really must adopt a course with her, and ad- 
here to it.” 

“We will, we wdll. What shall we do ?” 

“Let her have her own way. She won’t be 
here so very long that we should thwart her. I 
repent my share in it : my dears, I do not like her 
symptoms.” 

“Oh, doctor! my darling mother.” 

“ Depend upon it, her mind is not at rest. 
Slie is not easy yet about Beaurepaire. In her 
heart she thinks she will be turned adrift upon 
the world some day, and wdth as little warning 
as that Satan of a notary gave her: that morn- 
ing’s w’ork has shaken her all to pieces.” 

Laure sighed, Josephine smiled. 

The commandant did not come to dinner as 
usual. The evening passed heavily ; their hearts 
were full of uncertaintv. 

•r 

“We miss our merry, spirited companion,” 
said the baroness, with a grim look at Laure. 
Both young ladies assented with ludicrous eager- 
ness. 

That night Laure came and slept with Joseph- 
ine, and more than once she awoke with a start, and 
seized Josephine convulsively and held her tight. 

The commandant did not come for his answer 
next day, but in his place a letter to say he was 
obliged to go to head-quarters for two days, but 
would then return and attack the fort again un- 
til it should capitulate. Between the discussion 
with her mother and the receipt of tliis letter, 
Laure had been very sad, and very thoughtful. 
Accused of egoism I at first her whole nature 
rose in arms against the charge ; but after a 
while, comitig as it did from so revered a person, 
it forced her to serious self-examination. The 
poor girl said to herself ; “ Mamma is a shrewd 
woman. Am I after all deceiving myself? 
Would she be happy, and am I standing in tite 
way ?” She. liegged lier sister to walk with her 
in the park, i hat so they might be safe from in- 
terruption. 

“I am in deep perplexity; I can not under- 
stand my own sister. Why are you so calm, 
and cold, while I am in tortures of anxiety? 
Have you made some resolve and not confided it 
to your Laure ?” 

“No, love. I am scarce capable of a resolu- 
tion, — I drift.” 

“Let me put it in other words, then. How 
will this end ?” 

“I hardly know.” 

“Shall you marry Monsieur Raynal, then? 
answer me that.” 

“ I should not be surprised if he were to mar- 
ry 7«C,” 

“ But you said ‘ no ’ !” 

“Yes, I said ‘no’ once.” 

“ And don’t you mean to say it again ?” 

“What is the use? you beard him say he 
would not desist any the more, and I care too 
little to persist.” 

“ Why not, if he goes on pestering you !” 

“He is like you, — all energy at all hours. I 
have so little where my heart is unconcerned ; 
he seems, too, to have a wish ; I have none either 
way, and my conscience says ‘ marry him !’ ” 

“ Your conscience says marry one man, loving 
another ?’’ 


“ God forbid ! my sister, I love no one ; I have 
loAmd, but now my heart is dead and says noth- 
ing ; and my conscience says, ‘ You are the cause 
of all your mother’s trouble; you are the cause 
that Beaurepaire was sold. Now you can rejjair 
that mischief and at the same lime make a brave 
man happy, our benefactor happy.’ It is a great 
temptation; I hardly know why I said ‘no ’ at all, 
surprise perhaps, or to please you, pretty one.” 

Laure groaned. 

“Are you then w'orth so little that you w’ould 
throw yourself away on a man who does not love 
you?” 

“ He will love me : I see that.” • 

“ He does not want you, he is perfectly happy 
as he is.” 

“ Laure, he is not happy : he is only stout- 
hearted and good, and therefore content : and 
he is a character that it would be easy — in short, 
I feel my power here: I could make that man 
happy : he has nobody to write to even when he 
is away, — poor fellow!” 

“I shall lose my patience, Josephine : you are 
at your old trick, thinking of every body but 
yourself : I let you do it in trifles, but I love you 
too well to permit it when the happiness of your 
whole life is at stake. I must be satisfied on 
one point : or else this marriage shall never take 
place : I will say three words to this Raynal that 
will end it. I leave you to guess what those 
words will be.” 

“My poor Laure,” replied Josephine, “you 
will not : for, if you do, my mother and Monsieur 
Raynal will be the suiferers : as for me, it gives 
me pain to refuse him, but I should have no ob- 
jection whatever to be refused by him.” 

“ Oh, this monstrous, this stony indifference ! 
there, I threaten no more, I entreat : my sistci-, 
be frank with me unless I have lost your affec- 
tion.” 

“I will speak to you, Laure, as I would to an 
angel.” 

“Then show me the bottom of your heart.” 

“How can I do that?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“I can not fathom my own heart!” 

“Josephine!” • 

“Yours, love, I can, or our mother’s, or Mon- 
sieur Raynal’s, any body’s, but not my own. Can 
you yours?” 

“ Well ! well ! then don’t, but just answer me 
this, and I’ll read you : if Camille Dujardin stood 
on one side and Monsieur Raynal on the other, 
and both asked your hand, which would you 
take?” 

“That will never be. Whose? Not his 
whom I despise. Esteem might ripen into love, 
but what must contempt end in ?” 

“lam satisfied; yet one question more and I 
have done. Suppose Camille should turn out to 
be not quite — what shall I say? — inexcusable.” 

“All the world should not separate me from 
him. Why torture me with such a question? 
Ah ! I see — O Heaven ! you have heard some- 
thing. I was blind. This is why you would save 
me from this unnatural marriage. You are 
breaking the good news to me by degrees. There 
is no need. Quick— quick — let me have it. I 
have waited three years. I am sick of w’aiting. 
Why don’t you speak ? Why don’t you tell me ? 
Then I will tell you. He is alive, — he is well, — 
he is coming, it was not he those soldiers saw; 


WHITE LIES. 


they were so far off. How could they tell ? 
They saw a uniform, but not a face. Perhaps 
he has been a prisoner, and so could not write, 
could not come. But he is coming now. Why 
do you groan ? — why do you turn pale ? — ah ! I 
see, — I have once more deceived myself. I was 
mad. He I love is still a traitor to France and 
me, and I am wretched forever. Oh that I were 
dead ! — oh that I were dead ! No — don’t speak 
to me — never mind me ; this madness will pass 
as it has before and leave me a dead thing among 
the living — and so best. Oh, my sister, why did 
you wake me from my dream ? I was drifting 
so calmly, so peacefully, so dead and painless, — 
drifting over the dead sea of the heart towards 
the living waters of gratitude and duty. I was 
going to make more than one wortliy soul happy ; 
and seeing them happy I should have been con- 
tent and useful, — what am I now ? — and com- 
forted other hearts, and died joyful, — and young, 
— for God is good : He releases the good and pa- 
tient from their burdens!” 

With this, quiet tears came to the poor girl’s 
relief. The short-lived storm was lulled, and 
Patience began to creep slowly back to her seat 
in this large heart. 

“ Accursed be that man’s name, and cursed be 
my tongue, if ever I utter it again in your hear- 
ing 1” cried Laure. “ You are wiser than I, and 
every way better. O, Josephine, love, dry your 
tears. Ilere he comes : look ! riding across the 
park.” 

“Laure,” cried Josephine, hastily, “I leave 
all to you. Receive Monsieur Raynal, and de- 
cline his offer if you think proper. It is you who 
love me best. My mother would give mo up fur 
a house, — for an estate, — poor dear!” 

“ I would not give you for all the world.” 

“ I know it. I trust all to you. Whatever 
you decide I will adhere to, upon my honor;” 
and she moved towards the house. 

“ Well, but don’t go ; stay and hear what I 
shall say.” 

“ Oh no ; the sight of that poor man is intoler- 
able to me noio. Let me think of his virtues.” 

Laure was left alone, mistress of her sister’s 
fate. She put her head into her hands and 
thought with all her soul : 

“What shall I do?” 

That now fell on Laure which has in like man- 
ner taken by surprise all of us who arc not utter 
fools, — doubt. 

She was positive so long as the decision did not 
rest with her. Easy to be an advocate in re in- 
certa^ — hard to be the judge.* So long as Laure 
was opposed she had seen the cons only, but 
now the ])ros came rushing upon her mind. 

“ Wliat awful power a man has over a wom- 
an ! ! I shall never cure my sister of this fatal 
])assion. A husband might. No happiness for 
her unless she is cured of it. Our mother prays 
for it, — he wishes it. She was indifferent, or not 
averse, before I was so mad as to disturb her judg- 
ment with that rascal, whose name she shall 


* Were you ever a member of the Opposition, satirical 
and positive? and did an adroit minister, whom you had 
badgered ovennuch, ever say suddenly to you, with a twin- 
kle in his eye, You are right, my lads, govern the coun- 
try ?” And on that did your great heart collapse like a 
pricked bladder ? and did your poor little head find out 
that it is easy to see and say one side of things three-sid- 
ed, but the hardest thing on earth to balance alternatives, 
—EH ? 


s: 

never hear again ; and she will return to that 
tranquil state in a day or two. Well, then, — 
that she should lose me, and I her, for one she 
docs not love, nor he her! IIow can I decide? 
and here he is — Heaven guide me !” 

“Well, little lady,” cried the cheerful horn, 
“ and how are you, and how is my mother-in-law 
that is to be, — or is not to be, — as your sister 
pleases ? and how is she ? have I frightened her 
away? There were two petticoats; and now 
there is but one.” 

“ Oh no, monsieur ! but she left me to answer 
you.” 

“All the worse for me; I am not to your 
taste.” 

“ Monsieur, do not say that.” 

“Oh, it is no sacrilege not to like me. Not 
one in fifty does. I forgive you, haw ! haw! we 
can’t all have good taste.” 

“ But I do like you. Monsieur Raynal.” 

“ Then why won’t you let me have your sis- 
ter?” 

“I have not quite decided that you shall not 
have her.” 

“ All the better.” 

“I dare say you think me very unkind, very 
selfish, and you are not the only one who calls me 
that.” 

Seljish? I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Yes, you do. Oh! you don’t think what I 
must feel, I who love my sister as no man can 
ever love her, I whose heart has been one flesh 
and one soul with hers all my life. A stranger 
comes and takes her away from me as if she was 
nothing.” 

“ It is too bad !” cried Raynal, good-natured- 
ly ; “as you say, I am a comparative stranger : 
still it is not as if I was going to part you two.” 

“Not separate us? — when you take her to 
Egypt.” 

“ I shall not take her to Egypt.” 

“Yes, you will, — you know you will.” 

“ What ! do you think I am such a brute as to 
take that delicate creature out fighting with me ? 
no, it won’t be fighting : you mark my words, it 
will be huntiug Egyptians and Arabs: — why, 
the hot sand would choke her, to begin.” 

“ Oh, my good Monsieur Raynal ! what, then, 
you do not tear her from us ?” 

“No, you don’t take my manoeuvre. I have 
no family. I try for a wife that will throw me 
in a mother and sister. You will live altogether 
the same as before, of course ; only you must let 
me make one of you when I am at home. And 
how often will that be? Besides, I am as likely 
to be knocked on the head in Egypt as not ; you 
are worrying yourself for nothing, little lady.” 

Raynal uttered th.e last topic of consolation in 
a broad, hearty, hilarious tone, like a trombone 
thoroughly impregnated with cheerful views of 
fate. 

“ Heaven forbid !” cried Laure ; “ and it will, 
for I shall pray for you now. Ah ! monsieur, 
forgive me !” 

“ Yes, I forgive you, — stop ! what am I forgiv- 
ing you for?” 

“What for? why, for not seeing all your 
worth : of course I knew you were an angel, 
but I had no idea you were a duck. You are 
just the man for my sister. She likes to obey : 
you are all for commanding. So you see. 
Then she never thinks of herself ; any other 


88 


WHITE LIES. 


man but you would impose on her good-nature ; 
but you arc too generous to do tliat. So you 
see. Then she esteems you so highly.” 

“Brief, you are her plenipotentiary, and you 
say ‘ yes.’ ” 

“ Why should I say ‘no?’ you will make one 
another happy some day : you are both so good. 
Any other man but you would tear her from me ; 
but you are too just, too kind. Heaven will re- 
ward you. No ! I will. I will give you Jose- 
phine : ah, my dear brother-in-law, I give you 
there the most precious thing I have in the 
world.” 

“ Thank you, then. So that is settled. Hum ! 
no, it is not quite : I forgot : I have something 
for you to read : an anonymous letter. I got it 
this morning; it says your sister has a lover, — 
read it.” 

The letter ran to this tune : a friend who had 
observed the commandant’s frequent visits at 
Beaurepaire wrote to warn him against traps. 
Both the young ladies of Beaurepaire were 
doubtless at the new proprietor’s service to pick 
and choose from. But for all that each of them 
had a lover, and, though these lovers had their 
orders to keep out of the way till monsieur 
should be hooked, he might be sure that, if he 
married either, the man of her heart would 
come on the scene soon after, perhaps be pres- 
ent at the wedding. 

In short, it was one of those poisoned arrows a 
coarse vindictive coward can shoot. 

It was the first anonymous letter Laure had 
ever seen. It almost drove her mad on the spot. 
Kaynal wms sorry he had let her see it. 

She turned red and white by turns, and gasp- 
ed for breath. 

“Oh, why am I not a man? — why don’t I 
wear a sword. I would pass it through this cai- 
tiff ’s heart. The cowmrdly slave! — the fiend! 
for w'ho but a fiend could slander an angel like 
my Josephine? Hooked? Oh, she will never 
marry you if she sees this.” 

“Then don’t let her see it, and don’t take it 
to heart like that. I don’t trust to the wmrd of 
a thief, who owns that his stoi'^Jr is a thing he 
dare not sign his name to ; at all events I shall 
not put his word against yours. But this is 
w’hy I put the question to you. I am an honest 
man, but not a complaisant one. I should not 
be an easy-going husband like some I see about. 
I’d have no wasps round my honey. If my wife 
took a lover I would not lecture the woman, — 
what is the use? I’d kill the man then and 
there ; I’d kill him in doors or out ; I’d kill 
him as I would kill a snake. If she took another 
I’d send him after the first, and so on till one 
killed me.” 

“And serve the wretches right.” 

“ Yes, but, for my own sake, I don’t choose 
to marry a woman that loves any ether man. 
So tell me, come.” 

“ Monsieur, the letter is a wicked slander. I 
have no lover. I have a young fool that comes 
and teases me; but it is no secret. He is away, 
but why ? He is on a sick-bed,poor little fellow.” 

“But your sister?” 

“ My sister? ask my mother whether she has 
a lover.” 

“What for? I ask you. She would not 
have a lover unknown to you.” 

“ I defy her. Well, monsieur, 1 have not 


seen her speak three words to any young man 
except Monsieur Biviere this three years i)ast.” 

“That is enough;” and he tore the letter 
quietly to atoms. 

Then Laure saw she could afford a little more 
candor : 

“ Understand me, I can’t speak of what haj)- 
pened when I w'as a child. But if ever she had 
a girlish attachment, he has not followed it up, 
or surely I should have seen something of him 
all these years.” 

“ Parhleu — Oh, as for flirtations, let them 
pass; a lovely girl does not grow up without 
one or two whispering some nonsense into her 
ear. Why, I myself should have flirted often, 
but I never had the time. Bonaparte gives you 
time to eat and drink, but not to sleep or flirt, 
and that reminds me I have fifty miles to ride ; 
so good-bye, sister-in-law, eh ?” 

“Adieu, brother-in-law.” 

Left alone, Laure had some misgivings. She 
had equivocated with one whose upright, candid 
nature ought to have protected him ; but an 
enemy had accused Josephine; and it came so 
natural to shield her. “Did he really think I 
would expose my own sister?” said she to her- 
self, angrily. Was not this anger secret self- 
discontent? 

Laure was coming round a little to the match 
before this brisk interview with Raynal. His 
promise not to take Josephine to Egypt turned 
the scale. The anonymous letter, too, fired her 
with anger and resistance. “ So we have an 
enemy who tries to hinder him from marrying 
her ! ! !” 

Irresolution was no part of this young lady’s 
character. She did not decide blindly in so im- 
portant a matter ; but, her decision once made, 
she banished objections and misgivings ; the 
time for them was gone by, they had had their 
hearing. 

She went to Josephine. 

“Well, love,” said Josephine, “have you 
dismissed him ?” 

“No.” 

Josephine smiled feebly. “It is easy to say, 
‘say no;’ but it is not so easy to say ‘no,’ es- 
pecially when you feel you ought to say ‘yes,’ 
and have no wish either way except to give 
pleasure to others.” 

“But I am not such skim-milk,” replied 
Laure; “I have always a strong wish where 
you are concerned, and your happiness. I hesi- 
tated whilst I was in doubt ; but I doubt no 
longer ; I have had a long talk with him ; he 
has shown me his whole heart ; he is the best, 
the noblest of creatures ; he has no littleness or 
meanness. Also he is a thorough man ; I know 
that by his being the very opposite of a woman 
in his ways ; now you are a thorough woman, 
and you will suit one another to a T. I have 
decided, my Josephine ; no more doubts, love ; 
no more tears : no more disputes ; we are all of 
one mind.” 

“ All the better.” 

“Embrace me, I love you! Oh, never sister 
loved sister as I you : I have secured your hap- 
piness.” 

“Never mind my happiness, think of our 
mother, think of — ” 

“ Y’our happiness is before all. It will come ! 
not all in a day perhaps, but it will come. So 


WHITE LIES. 


then in one little fortnight my sister — ah ! — you 
marry Monsieur Raynal.” 

“You have settled it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What,— finally ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ But are you sure I can make him as happy 
as he deserves ?” 

“ Positive.” 

“I think so too; still — ” 

“ It is settled, dear,” said Laure, soothingly. 

“Oh, the comfort of that, you relieve me of a 
weight.” 

“It as settled, love, and by me.” 

“Then I am at peace. You are my best 
friend. I shall have duties; I shall do some 
good in the world. They were all fur it but 
you before.” 

“ And now I am stronger for it than any one. 
It is settled.” 

“Bless you, dear Laure, — you have saved 
your sister. O Camille, — Camille! — why 

HAVE YOU ABANDONED ME !” 

She fell to sobbing terribly. Laure wept on 
her neck, but said nothing. She too was a 
woman, and felt those despairing words vrere 
the woman’s consent to marry him she esteemed 
but did not love. It was the last despairing cry 
of love giving up a hopeless struggle. 

And in fact these were the last words that 
passed between the sisters. 

It was settled. 

And now Jacintha came to tell them it was 
close upon dinner-time. 

They hastened to dry their tears and wash 
their red eyes, for fear their mother should see 
W'hat they had been at, and worry herself. 

“ Well, mademoiselle, these two consent ; but 
what do you say? for, after all, it is you I am 
courting, and not them. Have you the courage 
to venture on a rough soldier like me ?” 

“Speak, Josephine,” said the baroness. 

For this delicate question was put plump be- 
fore the three ladies. 

“iMonsieur,” said Josephine timidly, “I will 
be as frank, as straightforward, as you are. I 
thank you for the honor you do mo.” 

Kaynal looked perplexed. 

“ Mother-in-law ? does that mean yes or no?” 

“I did not hear the word ‘ no,’ did you?” 

“Not downright ‘no!’” 

“Then she means ‘yes.’” 

“Then I am very much obliged to her.” 

“You have little reason to be, monsieur.” 

“Yes, he has!” cried the baroness, “and so 
have you, my beloved child ; my brave soldier, 
I ivould have selected you for a son out of all 
the nation.” 

“ And I never saw an old lady, but one, that 
suited me for a mother like you.” 

“ You have but one fault : you never can 
stay quietly and chat.” 

“That is Bonaparte’s fault, I have got to 
go to him at Paris to-morrow.” 

“So soon? but you stay with us this even- 
ing : I insist on it. I shall be hurt else.” 

“AH the evening. And just now I want to 
say something to you that I don’t wish those 
two to hear, mother !” 

“That is a hint, my young ladies,” said the 
baroness. 


89 

“And a pretty broad one,” said Laure, with 
a toss. 

The details of this conversation between the 
baroness and Raynal did not transpire ; but it 
left the baroness very hapj)y, and at the same 
time much affected. 

“ He is an angel, my dears,” cried she : “ he 
thinks of every thing. I shall love all brusque 
people; and once I held them in such aversion. 
You are a happy girl, Josephine, and I am a 
happy old woman.” 

Josephine, brightened up at the old lady’s 
joy, then she turned quickly to examine Laure ; 
Laure’s face beamed with unaffected happiness. 

“ Ah !” said Josephine, complacently. She 
added, “ And what a comfort to be all of one 
mind.” 

The wedding was fixed for that day fortnight. 

The next morning wardrobes were ransacked. 
The silk, muslin, and lace of their prosperous 
days were looked out : grave discussions 'were 
held over each work of art. 

Laure was active, busy, fussy. 

The baroness threw in the weight of her judg- 
ment and experience. 

Josephine smiled whenever either Laure or 
the baroness looked at all fixedly at her. 

So glided the peaceful days. So Josephine 
drifted towards the haven of wedlock. 



CHAPTER XX. 

At Bayonne, a garrison town on the south 
frontier of France, two seminels walked lethar- 
gicall}', crossing and reert^ing before the gov- 
ernor’s house. Suddenly their official drowsi- 
ness burst into energy ; they lowered their pieces 
and crossed them with a clash before the gate- 
way. A pale, grisly man, in rusty, defaced, 
dirty, and torn regimentals, was walking into 
the court-yard really as if it belonged to him. 
The battered man did not start back. 

He stopped and looked down with a smile at 
the steel barrier the soldiers had improvised for 
him, then drew himself a little up, carried his 
hand carelessly to his cap, which was near- 
ly in two, and gave the name of an officer in the 
French army. 

If you or I, dressed like a beggar, who years ago 
had stolen regimentals and worn them down to 
civil garments, had addressed these soldiers with 
these very same words, the bayonets would have 
kissed closer, or perhaps the points been turned 
against our sacred but rusty person ; but there 
is a freemasonry of the sword : the light, im- 
perious hand that touched that battered cap, 
and the quiet, clear tone of command, told. 

The soldiers slowly recovered their pieces, but 
still looked uneasy and doubtful in their minds. 
The battered one saw this, and gave a sort of 
lofty smile ; he turned up his cuffs and shotved 
his wrists, and drew himself still higher. 

The sentinels shouldered their pieces sharp, 
then dropped them simultaneously with a clatter 
and ring upon the pavement. 

“Pass, captain.” 

The battered, rusty figure rang the governor’s 
bell. A servant came and eyed him with hor- 
ror and contempt. He gave his name, and beg- 
ged to see the governor. 


WHITE LIES. 


r>0 


The servant left him in the hall, and went np 
stairs to tell his master. At the name the gov- 
ernor reflected, then frowned, then bade his serv- 
ant reach him down a certain book. He in- 
spected it. “ I thought so ; any one with him ?” 

“ No, monsieur the governor.” 

“ Load my pistols, put them on the table, put 
that book back, show him in, and then order a 
guard to the door.” 

The governor was a stern veteran, with a pow- 
erful brow, a shaggy eyebrow, and a piercing eye. 
He never rose, but leaned his chin on his hand, 
and his elbow on a table that stood between 
them, and eyed the new-comer very fixedly and 
strangely. 

“We did not expect to see you on this side 
the Pyrenees.” 

“Nor I myself, governor.” 

“ What do you come to me for?” 

“A welcome, a suit of regimentals, and 
money to take me to Paris. 

“And suppose, instead of that, I turn out a 
corporal’s guard, and bid them shoot you in the 
court-yard ?” 

“It would be the drollest thing you ever did, 
all things considered,” said the other coolly, 
but he looked a little surprised. 

The governor went for the book he had lately 
consulted, found the Jiage, handed it to the rus- 
ty officer, and watched him keenly. The blood 
rushed all over his face, and his lip trembled; 
but his eye dwelt stern yet sorrowful on the gov- 
ernor. 

“I have read your book: now read mine.” 
He drew off his coat, and showed his wrists and 
arms, blue and whaled. “ Can you read that, 
monsieur?” % 

“No!” 

“AH the better for you : Spanish fetters, gener- 
al.” He showed a white scar on his shoulder. 
“Can you read that, sir?” 

“Humph ?” 

“This is what I cut out of it,” and he hand- 
ed the governor a little round stone as big and 
almost as regular as a musket-ball. 

“ Humph ! That could hardly have been fired 
from a French musket.” 

“Can you read this?” and he showed him a 
a long cicatrix on his other arm. 

“Knife, I think,” said the governor. 

“You are right, monsieur: Spanish knife! 
Can you read this ?” and opening his bosom ho 
showed a raw and bloody wound on his breast. 

“ Oh, the devil !” cried the general. 

Tlie wounded man put his rusty coat on again, 
and stood erect and haughty and silent. 

The general eyed him, and saw his great spir- 
it shining through this man. The more he 
looked the less coidd the scarecrow veil the hero 
from his practised eye. 

“ There has been some mistake or else I dote, 
gnd can’t tell a soldier from a — ” 

“ Don’t say the word, old man, or your heart 
will bleed.” 

“ Humph ! I must go into this matter at once. 
Be seated, captain, if you please, and tell me 
what have you been doing all these years?” 

“ Suffering.’.’ 

“What, all the time?” 

“ Without intermission !” 

“But what ? suffering what ?” 

“ Cold, hunger, darkness, wounds, solitude, 


! sickness, despair, prison, all that man can suf- 
fer.” 

“Impossible; a man would be dead at that 
rate before this.” 

“ I should have died a dozen times, but for 
one thing.” 

“ Ay ! what was that ?” 

“ I had promised to live.” 

There was a pause. Then the old man said 
calmly, “To the facts, young man : I listen.” 

An hour had scarce elapsed since the rusty 
figure was stopped by the sentinels at the gate, 
when two glittering officers passed out under the 
same archway, followed by a servant carrying a 
furred cloak. The sentinels presented arms. 
The elder of these officers was the governor: 
the younger was the late scarecrow, in a bran- 
new uniform belonging to the governor’s son. 
He shone out now in his true light : the beau 
ideal of a patrician soldier ; one would have said 
he had been born with a sword by his side and 
drilled by Nature, so straight and smart yet easy 
he was in every movement. He was like a fal- 
con, eye and all, only, as it were, down at the 
bottom of the hawk eye seemed to lie a dove’s 
eye. That wonderful compound and varyingej'e 
seemed to say : I can love, I can fight ; I can 
fight, I can love, as few of you can do either. 

The old man was trying to persuade him to 
stay at Bayonne, until his wound should be 
cured. 

“ No, general, I have other wounds to cure of 
longer standing than this one.” 

“Paris is a long journey for a wounded man.” 

“ Say a scratched man, general.” 

“ Well, promise me to stay a month at Paris ?” 

“General, I shall stay an hour in Paris.” 

“ An hour in Paris! Well, at least call at 
the War Office and present this letter.” 

“I will.” 

That same afternoon, wrapped in the govern- 
j or’s furred cloak, the young officer lay at his full 
length in the coupe of the diligence, the whole 
of which the governor had peremprorily demand- 
ed for him, and rolled day and night towards 
Paris. 

Tie reached it worn with fatigue and fevered 
by his wound, but his spirit as indomitable as 
ever. He went to the War Office with the gov- 
ernor’s letter. It seemed to create some little 
sensation : one functionary came and said a po- 
lite word to him, then another. At last, to his 
infinite surprise, the minister himself sent down 
word he wished to see him ; the minister put 
several questions to him, and seemed interested 
in him and touched by his relation. 

“ I think, captain, I shall have to send to you: 
where do you stay in Paris ?” 

“ Nowhere, monsieur, — I leave Paris as soon 
as I can find an easy-going horse.” 

“But General Bertaux tells me you are 
wounded.” 

“ A little.” 

“Pardon mo, captain, but is this prudent ? is 
it just to yourself and your friends?” 

“Yes, monsieur, I owe it to those who perhaps 
think me dead.” 

“You can write to them.” 

“ I grudge so great, so sacred a joy to a let- 
ter. No ! after all I have suffered i claim to bo 


t)l 


WHITE LIES. 


the one to tell her I have kept my word ; I prom- 
ised to live, and I live.” 

“Her? I say no more, cnptain, — only tell me 
what road you take.” 

“The road to Brittany.” 

As the young officer was walking his horse by 
the roadside about a league and a half from 
Paris, he heard a clatter behind him, and up gal- 
loped an aide-de-camp, and drew up alongside, 
bringing his horse nearly on his haunches. 

He handed him a large packet sealed with the 
arms of France. The other tore it open and there 
was his brevet as colonel. His cheek flushed, and 
his eye glittered with joy. The aide-de-camp 
next gave him a parcel. 

“ Your epaulettes, colonel ! AVe hearyou are 
going into the wilds where epaulettes don’t grow. 
You are to join the army of the lihine as soon 
as your woutid is well.” 

“ Wherever my country calls me.” 

“Your address, then, colonel, that we may 
know where to put our finger on a hero when we 
want one.” 

“ I am going to Beaurepaire.” 

“ Ah ! Beaurepaire ? I never heard of it.” 

“ Y'ou never heard of Beaurepaire ? Beau- 
repaire is in Brittany, twenty-five leagues from 
Paris, twenty - three leagues and a half from 
here.” 

“ Good ! Health and honor to you, colonel.” 

“The same to you, monsieur, — or a soldier’s 
death.” 

The new colonel read the precious document 
across his horse’s mane, and then he was going 
to put one of the epaulettes on his right shoulder, 
bare at present- but he reflected. 

“ No ; I will not crown myself. She shall 
make me a colonel with her own dear hand. I 
will put them in my pocket. I will not even 
look at them till she has seen them ; I have no 
right. Oh, how happy I am, nut only to come 
back to her alive, but to come back to her hon- 
ored.” 

His wound smarted, his limbs ached, but no 
pain past or present could lay hold of his mind. 
In his great joy he remembered past sufiering 
and felt present pain — and smiled. 

Only every now and then he pined for wings. 

Oh, the weary road ! 

He was walking his horse quietly, drooping a 
little over his saddle, when another officer well 
mounted canie after him and passed him at a 
hand-gallop with one hasty glance at his uniform, 
and went tearing on like one riding for his life. 

“Don’t I know that face ?” said he. 

He cudgelled his memory, and at last he re- 
membered it was the face of an old comrade. 
They had been lieutenants together. 

“ It teas Raynal,”said he, “ only bronzed by 
service in some hot country. No wonder he did 
not know me. I must be more changed still. I 
wish I had hailed the fellow. Perhaps I shall 
fall in with him again at the next town.” 

He touched his horse with the spur, and can- 
tered gently on, for trotting shook him more than 
he could bear. Even when he cantered he had 
to press his hand against his bosom, and often 
witli the motion a bitterer pang than usual came 
and forced the water from his eyes ; and then he 
smiled. 

His great love and his high courage made this 
reply to the body’s idle anguish. And still his 


eyes looked straight forward as at some object in 
the distant horizon, while he came gently on, his 
hand pressed to his bosom, his head drooping 
now and then, smiling patiently upon the road 
to Beaurepaire. 


CHAPTER XXL 

At Beaurepaire they were making and alter- 
ing wedding dresses. Laure was excited, and 
even Josephine took a calm interest. Dress nev- 
er goes for nothing with her sex. The chairs 
and tables were covered with ‘dresses, and the 
floor was littered. 

“I wish you would think more of what you 
are to wear.” 

“Of course you do,” said Laure; “but that 
is selfish of you. You always wart to have your 
own way, and your way is to be thinking of ev- 
ery body before Josephine ; but you shall not 
have your own way whilst I am here, because I 
am the mistress.” 

“Nobody disputes that, love !” 

“All the belter for them, dear. Now, dear, 
you really must work harder. It only wants five 
days to the wedding, and see what oceans we 
have to do !” 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon : the bar- 
oness had joined her daughters, and was presid- 
ing over the rites of vanity, and telling them 
what she wore at her wedding, under Louis XV., 
with strict accuracy, and what we men should 
consider a wonderful effort of memory, when the 
Commandant Raynal came in like a cannon- 
ball, without any warning, and stood among 
them in a stiff military attitude. Exclamations 
from all the party, and then a kind greeting, es- 
pecially from the baroness. 

“ AVe have been so dull without you, Jean.” 

“And I'have missed you once or twice, moth- 
er-in-law, I can tell you. AA’'ell, mother-in-law, 
I am afraid I shall vex you, but you must con- 
sider we live in a busy time. To-morrow I start 
for Egypt !j>- 

“ Oh !” cried Laure. 

“To-morrow!” cried the baroness. 

Josephine put down her work quietly. 

“ Yes, it is all altered. Bonaparte leaves Par- 
is the day after to-morrow at seven in the morn- 
ing, and I go with him. I rode back here as fast 
as I could to spend what little time is left with 
you.” 

The ladies’ eyes all telegraphed one another 
in turn. 

“ My horse is a good one. If I start to-mor- 
row at noon I shall be at Paris by five in the 
morning, — must be with Bonaparte at half-past 
five.” 

The baroness sighed deeply, and the tears came 
into her eyes. 

“Just as we were all beginning to know and 
love you.” 

“Oh ! you must not be down-hearted, old lady. 
AVhy, I am as likely to come back from Egyjjt as 
not. It is an even chance, to say the least.’ 

This piece of consolation completed the bar- 
oness’s unhappiness. She really had conceived 
a great affeetion for Raynal, and her heart had 
been set on the wedding. 

These her motives were mixed ; and so, by- 


92 


WHITE LIES. 


the-by, are yours and mine, in nearly all we do, 
— good, bad, or indifferent. 

Take away all that finery, girls,” said she, 
bitterly, “ we shall not want it for years. Ah ! 
my friend, I shall not be alive when you come 
home from Egypt. I shall never have a 
son !” 

“What do you mean?” said Raynnl, a little 
roughly. “ It will be your own fault if you don’t 
have a son ; it shall not be mine.” 

“ I should rather ask, what do you mean ? 
You will be my friend and the betrothed of my 
daughter. But consider ; but for this contretemps 
you really would have belonged to me in a few 
days’ time. I should have had the right to put 
my finger on you and say, ‘ This is my son.’ 
Alas ! that name had become dear to me. I 
never had a son, — only daughters, — the best any 
woman ever had ; but one is not complete with- 
out a son, and I shall never live to have one.” 

Raynal looked puzzled. The young ladies 
were putting away the wedding things. 

“I hate General Bonaparte,” said Laure, vi- 
ciously. 

“ Ilate my general?” groaned Raynal, look- 
ing down with a sort of superstitious awe and 
wonder at the lovely vixen. “ Hate the best sol- 
dier the world ever saw?” 

“What do I care for his soldiership. He has 
put off our wedding. For how many years did 
you say?” 

“ No ; he has put it on.” 

“ And after me working my finger to the bone 
— put it on — what do you mean !” 

“ I mean the wedding was to be in a week, 
and now it is to be to-morrow at ten o’clock ; 
that is putting it on, I call.” 

The three ladies set up their throats together. 

“ To-morrow ?” 

“ To-morrow. Why, what do you suppose I 
left Paris for yesterday ? left my duties even.” 

“ What, monsieur?” asked Josephine, timidly, 
“did you ride all that way, and leave your du- 
ties, merely to marry me?” and she looked a lit- 
tle ])leased. 

“You are worth a great deal more trouble 
than that,” said Raynal, simply. “ Besides, I had 
passed niy word, and I always keep my word.” 

“ So do I, monsieur,” said Josephine, a little 
proudly. “ I will not go from it now, if you in- 
sist ; but I confess to you that such a proposal 
staggers me ; so sudden, — no preliminaries, — 
no time to reflect ; in short, there are so many 
difficulties that I must request of your courtesy 
to reconsider.” 

“Difficulties,” shouted Raynal, with merry 
disdain; “there are none unless you sit down 
and make them: difficulties?? ha! ha! we do 
more difficult things than this every day of our 
lives ; we passed the bridge of Areola in thirteen 
minutes ; and we had not the consent of the en- 
emy ; as we have now, mademoiselle, — have we 
not?” 

“ Monsieur, it seems ungracious in me to raise 
objections, when you have taken so much trou- 
ble, — but — mamma ! !” 

“Yes, my daughter; my dear friend, you do 
us both great honor by this empressement ; but I 
see no possibility ; there is an etiquette we can 
not altogether defy; there are preliminaries be- 
fore a daughter of the Baron de Beaurepairc — ” 

“ There used to be all that, raadamc !” laugh- 


ed Raynal, putting her down good-humoredly, 
“but it was in the days when armies came out 
and touched their caps to one another, and went 
back into winter quarters. Then the struggle 
was who could go slowest ; now the fight is who 
can go fastest. Time and Bonaparte wait for 
nobody; and ladies and other strong places are 
I taken by storm, not undermined a foot a month 
as under Noah Quatorze ; let me cut this short 
as time is short ; mademoiselle, you say you arc 
a woman of your word, and that if I insist you 
will give in ; well, I insist !” 

“In that case, monsieur, all is said: I shall 
i not resist you.” 

“ It would be no use,” cried Laure, clapping 
her hands, “ the man is irresistible.” 

“You will not resist? that is all I require: 
now don’t worry yourself : don’t fancy difficul- 
ties : don’t trouble yourself. I undertake every 
thing: you will not have to lift a finger except 
to sign the marriage contract. As the time is 
short I cut it into rations beforehand : the car- 
riages will be here at nine: they will whisk us 
down to the mayor’s house by a quarter to ten : Pi- 
card the notary meets us there with the marriage 
contract to save time : the contract signed, the 
mayor will do the marriage at quickstep out of 
respect for me and to save time, half an hour, 
quarter past ten : breakfast all in the same house 
. an hour and a quarter ; — we mustn’t hurry a 
wedding breakfast; then ten minutes or so for 
the old fogies to waste in making speeches about 
I our virtues, mademoiselle — yours and mine ; my 
! answer ten seconds — my watch will come out — 

I my charger will come round — I rise from the ta- 
1 ble — embrace my dear old mother — kiss my wife’s 
hand — into the saddle — canter to Paris — roll to 
Toulon — sail to Egypt. But I shall leave a Ma- 
dame Raynal and a mother behind me : they will 
both send me a kind word now and then ;* and 
I will write letters to you all from Egypt, and 
when I come home my wife and I will make ac- 
quaintance, and we will all be happy together : 
and if I am killed out there don’t you go and 
fret your poor little hearts about it : it is a sol- 
dier’s lot, sooner or later. Besides you will find 
I have taken care of you : my poor women, Jean 
Raynal's hand won’t let any skulking thief come 
and turn you out of your quarters, even though 
Jean Raynal should be dead. I have got to 
meet Picard at Riviere’s on that very business — 
I am off.” 

He was gone as brusquely as he came. 

“My mother! my sister !” cried Josephine, 
“ help me to love this man.” 

“ You need no help !” cried the baroness, with 
enthusiasm ; “ not love him — we should all be 
monsters.” 

Raynal came to supper, looking bright and 
cheerful. 

“No more work to-day. I have nothing to 
do but talk, fancy that.” 

There is no time to relate a tithe of what they 
said to one another ; I select the most remarka- 
ble thing. 

Josephine de Beaurepaire, who had been si- 
lent and thoughtful, said to Raynal, in a voice 
scarce above a whisper : — 

“Monsieur !” 

“ Mademoiselle !” rang the trombone. 

“ Am I not to go to Egypt?” 

“ No,” was the brusque reply. 


WHITE LIES. 


93 


Josephine drew back, like a sensitive plant. 
But she returned to the attack. 

“ Nevertheless, monsieur, it seems to me that 
a wife’s duty is to be by her husband’s side — to 
look after his comfort — to console him when oth- 
ers vex him — to soothe him when he is harassed.” 

“ Her first duty is to obey him.” 

“Certainly.” 

“ Well, when I am your husband, I shall bid 
you stay with your mother and sister, while I go 
to Egypt.” 

“ As you please, monsieur.” 

“ If I come back from Egypt, and you mako 
the same proposal after we have lived together 
awhile, I shall jump at the offer ; but this time 
stay where you arc ; look at your sister, a word 
more and we shall raise the waters. I don’t 
think any the worse of you for making the offer, 
mademoiselle.” 

The next day at sharp nine two carriages were 
at the door. The ladies kept Raynal waiting, 
and threw out all his serial divisions of time at 
once. He stamped backward and forward, 
and twisted his mustaches and swore. This was 
a new torture to him, to be made unpunctual. 
Jacintha told them he was in a rage, and that 
made them nervous and flurried, and their fin- 
gers strayed wildly among hooks and eyes, and 
all sorts of fastenings ; they were not ready till 
half past nine. Conscious they deserved a scold- 
ing, they sent Josephine down first. She dawn- 
ed upon the honest soldier so radiant, so dazzling 
in her snowy dress, with her coronet of pearls (an 
heirloom), and her bridal veil parted, and the 
flush of conscious beauty on her cheek, that in- 
stead of scolding her, he actually blurted out : — 

“ Well ! by St. Denis, it was worth waiting 
half an hour for.” 

He recovered a quarter of an hour by making 
the driver gallop. Occasional shrieks issued 
from the carriage that held the baroness. Thh 
ancient lady anticipated annihilation. She had 
not come down from a galloping age. 

They rattled into the town, drew up at the may- 
or’s house, were received with great ceremony 
by that functionary and Picard, and entered the 
house. 

When their carriages rattled into the little 
town from the north side, the wounded officer 
had already entered it from the south, and was 
riding at a foot’s pace along the principal street. 
The motion of his horse now shook him past en- 
durance. lie dismounted at an inn a few doors 
from the mayor’s house, and determined to do 
the rest of the short journey on foot. The land- 
lord bustled about him obsequiously. “ You are 
faint, my officer : you have travelled too far. 
Let me order you an excellent breakfast.” 

“No. I want a carriage ; have you one ?” 

“ ]\Iy officer, I have two.” 

“ Order one out.” 

“But, my officer, unluckily they are both en- 
gaged for the day and by peojjle of distinction.” 

“ Then I must rest here half an hour, and then 
proceed on foot.” 

The landlord showed him into a room ; it had 
a large window looking on the street. 

“Give me a couple of chairs to lie down on, 
and oj)en the window : I feel faint.” 

“It is that monsieur wants his breakfast.” 

“ Well. An omelet and a bottle of red wine ; 
but open the window first.” 


He lay near the window, revived by the air, 
and watched the dear little street he had not seen 
for years — watched with great interest to see what 
faces he could recognize and which were new. 

The W’ounded hero felt faint, but happy, very, 
very happy. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The marriage contract was signed and wit- 
nessed. 

“Now to the church,” cried the baroness, 
gayly. 

“ To the church ! What for ?” asked Raynal. 

“ Is not the wedding to take place this morn- 
ing?” 

“ Parhleii." 

Picard put in his word with a knowing look. 

“ I understand, madame the baroness is not 
aware of the change in the law. People are not 
married in church nowadays.” • 

“ People are not married in church ?” and ho 
seemed to her like one that mocketh. 

“No. The state marries its citizens now; 
and with reason ; since marriage is a civil con- 
tract.”, 

“ Marriage a civil contract !” repeated the bar- 
oness. “ What, is it then no longer one of the 
holy Sacraments ? What horrible impiety shall 
we come to next? Unhappy France ! Josephine, 
such a contract would never be a marriage in my 
eyes : and wliat would become of a union the 
Church had not blessed ?” 

“Madame,” said Picard, “the Church can 
bless it still ; but it is only the mayor here that 
can do it.” 

“My daughter! my poor daughter!” 

All this time Josephine tvas blushing scarlet, 
and looking this way and that, with a sort of in- 
stinctive desire to fly and hide, no matter where, 
for a week or so. 

“Haw! haw! haw' !” roared Raynal : “here 
is a pretty mother. Wants her daughter to be 
unlawfully married in church, instead of lawfully 
in a house. Give me the will !” 

Picard handed him a document. 

“Look here, mother-in-law; I have left 
Beaurepaire to my lawful wife.” 

“Otherwise,” put in Picard, “ in case of death, 
it tvould pass to his heir-at-law'.” 

“ And he would turn you all out, and that does 
not suit me. Now there stands the only man 
who can make mademoiselle my laicful wife. 
So quick march, monsieur the mayor, for time 
and Bonaparte wait for no man.” 

“Stay a minute, young people,” said the 
mayor. “We should soothe respectable preju- 
dices, not crush them. Madame, I am at least 
as old as you : and have seen many changes. I 
])erfectly understand your feelings.” 

“ Ah, monsieur ! oh !” 

“ Calm yourself, dear madame ; the case is not 
so bad as you think. It is perfectly true that in 
Republican France the civil magistrate alone can 
bind French citizens in lawful wedlock. But 
this does not annihilate the religious ceremony. 
You can ask the Church’s blessing on my work ; 
and be assured you are not the only one who 
retains that natural prejudice. Out of every ten 
couples that I marry, four or five go to church 
afterwards and perform the ancient ceremonies. 


94 : 


WHITE LIES. 


And they do well. For there before the altar 
the priest tells them what it is not iny business to 
dilate upon, the grave moral and religious duties 
they have undertaken along with this civil con- 
tract. The State binds, but the Church still 
blesses, and piously assents to that — ” 

“From which she has no power to dissent!” 

“Monsieur Picard, do you consider it polite 
to interrupt the chief magistrate of the place 
while he is explaining the law to the citizen?” 

Picard shut up like a knife. 

“Ah, monsieur!” cried the baroness, “you 
are a worthy man. Monsieur, have you daugh- 
ters?” 

“Ay, madame ! that I love well. I married 
one last year.” 

“Did you marry her after this fashion ?” 

“I married her myself, as I will marry yours 
if you will trust me with her,” I 

“I will, monsieur: your are a father: you ; 
are a worthy man: you inspire me with confi- 
dence.” 1 

“And after I have made them one, there : 
is nothing to prevent them adjourning to the | 
church.” I 

“I beg your pardon,” cried Raynal, “there 
are two things to prevent it : things that)»wait for | 
no man : time and Bonaparte. Come, sir, i 
enough chat : to work.” i 

The mayor assented. He invited. Josephine to 
stand before him. She trembled and wept a j 
little : Laure clung to her and wept, and the j 
good mayor married the parties off-hand. 

“Is that all?” asked the baroness; “it is 
terribly soon done.” 

“It is done effectively, madame,” said the 
mayor, with a smile. “Permit me to tell you that 
his Holiness the Pope can not undo my work.” 

Picard grinned slyly, and whispered some- 
thing into Raynal’s ear. 

“ Oh ! indeed !” said Raynal, aloud, and care- 
le-sly. “Come, Madame Raynal, to breakfast: 
follow us.” 

They paired and followed the bride and bride- 
groom into the breakfirst-room. 

Tlie light words Picard whispered were just 
five in number. 

Those five words contained seven syllables. 
Now if the mayor had not snubbed Picard just 
before, he would have uttered those jocose but 
true words aloud. There was no particular rea- 
son why he should not. And if he had — The 
threads of the web of life, how subtle they, are! i 
The finest cotton of Manchester, the finer meshes 
of the spider, seem three-inch cables by compari- 
son with those moral gossamers which vulgar eyes ! 
can not see at all, the “somethings, nothings,” j 
on which great fates have hung. ! 

It was a cheerful breakfast, thanks to Raynal, j 
who was in high spirits and would not allow a 
word of regret from any one. Madame Raynal j 
sat by his side, looking up at him every now and : 
then with innocent admiration. A merry wed- j 
ding breakfast ! I 

Oh ! if we could sec through the walls of | 
houses ! 

Five doors off sat a wounded soldier alone, 
recruiting the small remnant of his sore-tried 
strength, that he might struggle on to Beaurc- 
paire, and lose in one moment years of separa- 
tion, pain, prison, anguish, martyrdom, in one ] 
great gush of joy without compare. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

The wedding breakfast was ended. The time 
was drawing near to part. There was a silence. 
It was broken by Madame Raynal. 

“Monsieur,” said she, a little timidly, “ have 
you reflected ?” 

“On what ?’’ 

“About taking me to Egypt.” 

“No ; I have not given it a thought since I 
said ‘ no.’ ” 

“Yet permit me to say that it is my duty to 
be by your side, my husband !” and she colored 
at this word, — it was the first time she had ever 
used it. 

“Not when I excuse you.” 

“I would not be an encumbrance to you, 
monsieur : I should not be useless. I could add 
more to his comfort than he gives me credit for, 
messieurs.” 

Warm assent of the mayor and notary. 

“ I give you credit for being an angel, my 
wife.” 

He looked up. Laure was trembling, her fork 
shaking in her poor little hand. 

She cast a piteous glance at him, 

“But all the generosity must not be on your 
side. You shall go with me next time ; that is 
settled. Let us speak of it no more.” 

“ Monsieur, I submit. At least, give me some- 
thing to do for you while you are away, Ah ! 
tell me what I can do for my absent friend to 
show my gratitude — my regard — my esteem.” 

“Well, madame, — let me think. Well, I 
saw a plain gray dress at Beaurepaire.” 

“ Yes, monsieur. My gray silk, Laure.” 

“ I like that dress.” 

“Monsieur, the moment I reach home after 
losing you I shall put it on, and it shall be my 
constant wear. I see, — you are right, — gray be- 
’comes a wife whose husband is not dead, but is 
absent, and alas ! in hourly danger.” 

“Now look at that!” cried Raynal to the 
company. “That is her all over; she can see 
six meanings where another would see but one. 
I never thought of that, I swear. I like modest 
colors, that is all. My mother used to be all for 
modest wives wearing modest colors.” 

“Count on me, monsieur. Is there nothing 
more difficult you will be so good as give me to 
do?” 

“No ; there is only one order more, and that 
will be easier still to such a woman as you. I 
commit to your care, mademoiselle, — madame, 
I mean, — the name of Raynal. It is not so high 
a name as yours, but it is as honest. I am proud 
of it, — I am jealous of it. I shall guard it for 
you in Egypt; you guard it in France for me.” 

“ With my life !” cried Josephine, lifting her 
eyes and her hand to heaven. 

Raynal rang the bell, and ordered his charger 
round. 

The baroness began to cry. 

“The young people may hope to see you 
again,” said she; “but there are two chances 
against your poor old mother.” 

“Courage, mother!” cried the stout soldier. 
“No, no; you won’t play me such a trick, — 
once is enough for that game.” 

“My brother!” cried Laure, “do not go 
without kissing your little sister who loves you 
and thanks you.” 


WHITE LIES. dS 


He kissed her. 

» “Bnive, generous man!” she cried, with her 
arms round his neck ; “ God protect you, and 
send you back safe to us !” 

“Amen!” cried all present, by one impulse, 
— even the cold notary. 

Kaynal’s mustache quivered. 

He kissed Josephine hastily on the brow ; the 
baroness on both cheeks, shook the men’s hands 
warmly but hastily, and strode out without look- 
ing behind him. 

They followed him to the door of the house. 
He w’as tightening his horse’s girths. He flung 
himself with all the resolution of his steel na- 
ture into the saddle, and, with one grand wave 
of his cocked hat to the tearful group, he spur- 
red aw'ay for Egypt. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The baroness made the doctor go shoijping. 

“ I must buy Lame a gray silk.” 

In doing this she saw many other tempting 
things. I say no more. 

Meantime the young ladies went up to Beau- 
repaire in the other carriage, for Josephine 
wished to avoid the gaze of the town, and get 
home and be quiet. 

The driver went very fast. He had drunk 
the bride’s health at the mayor’s, item the 
bridegroom’s, the bridesmaid’s, the mayor’s, 
etc., etc., and “ a spur in the head is worth two 
in the heel,” says the proverb. The sisters 
leaned back on the soft cushions and enjo3’-ed 
the smooth and rapid motion once so familiar 
to them, so rare of late. 

Then Laure took her sister gently to task for 
having offered to go to Egypt. 

“You forgot mo, cruel one.” 

“No, love, did you not see I dared not look 
towards you. I love j’ou better than all the 
world ; but this was my duty. I was his wife ; 
I liad no longer a feeble inclination and a feeble 
disinclination to decide between, — but right on 
one side, wrong on the other.” 

“ Oh, I know where your ladyship’s strength 
lies ; my force is — in — my inclinations.” 

“Yes"! Laure,” continued Josephine, thought- 
fully, “ duty is a great comfort, — it is tangible, 
— it is something to lay hold of for life or 
death : a strong tower for the weak but well 
disposed.” 

“ How fast we glide, Josephine, — it is so nice. 
I am not above owming I love a carriage : now 
lean back with me, and take my hand, and as 
we glide shut your eyes and think, — wdiisper me 
all your feelings, all, all.” 

“Laure,” said Josephine, half closing her 
eyes, “ I feel a great calm, a heavenly calm.” 

“ I thought you would,” murmured Laure. 

“My fate is decided. No more suspense. 
My duties are clear. I have a husband I am 
proud of. There is no perfidy with him, no 
deceit, no disingenuousness, no shade. He is a 
human sun. Nothing unmanly either. No 
feebleness: one can lean on him. He will 
make me a better, truer woman, and I him a 
haiqticr man. Yes, is it not nice to think that 
great and strong as he is I can teach him a 


happiness he knows not as 3'et?” And she 
smiled with the sense of her delicate power. 

“Yes, go on dear,” purred Laure, “I seem 
to see your pretty little thoughts rising out of 
your heart like a bubbling fountain : go on.” 

“Yes, love, and then, gratitude, — Laure, I 
have heard it said, or read it somewhere, that 
gratitude is a burden : I don’t understand that 
sentiment, — why, to me gratitude is a delight, 
gratitude is a passion. It is the warmest of all 
the tender feelings I have for dear Monsieur 
Raynal. I feel it glow here — in my bosom.” 

“One word, dear; do you think you shall 
love him ?” 

“Indeed, I do.” 

“When?” 

“ Oh, long before he comes back.” 

Before V' 

Josephine, her eyes still half closed, went 
murmuring on. “ His virtues will always be 
present to me. His little faults of manner will 
not be in sight. Good Raynal! The image of 
those great qualities I revere so, perhaps be- 
cause I fail in them myself, will be before my 
mind : and ere he comes home I shall love him ; 
don’t you think so? tell me.” 

“I am sure of it. I love him already. I am 
a selfish girl. My mother found me out. I 
am so much obliged to her. But I am not a 
wicked girl : and if I have been unkind to him, 
I will make it up to him. Go on, dear, tell me 
your whole heart.” 

“Yes. One reason why I wished to go home 
at once w’as— no — guess.” 

“To put on your gray silk. Oh, I know 
you.” 

“Yes, Laure, it was: dear good Raynal. 
Yes, I feel prouder of his honest name than of 
our noble one. And I am so calm, my sister, 
— so tranquil, — so pleased, that my mother’s 
mind is at rest, — so convinced all is for the 
best, — so contented with my owm lot, — so hap — 

py-” 

A gentle tear stole from beneath her long 
lashes. Laure looked at her wistfully: then 
laid her cheek to hers. They leaned back hand 
in hand, placid and silent. 

The carriage glided fast. Beaurepaire was 
almost in sight. 

Suddenly Josephine’s hand tightened on 
Laure’s, and she sat up in the carriage like a 
person awakened. 

“What is it?” asked Laure. “Are w'e at 
home? No.” 

Josephine turned quickly round. “No win- 
dow at the back,” said she. 

Laure instantly put her head out at the side 
window. 

“ What is it ? I see nothing. What was 
it?” 

“ Some one in uniform.” 

“ Oh, is that all.” 

“ I saw an epaulette.” 

“Oh, an officer ! I saw nobody. To be sure 
the road took a turn. Ah ! you thought it was 
a message from Raynal.” 

“Oh, no! on foot,— walking very slowly. 
C(^ing this wav, too. Coming this w'ay ! 
Coming this way !” 

“Ah, bah I it is no such rarit}’, — there are 
plenty of soldiers on the road.” 

“Not officers, — on foot.” 


96 


WHITE LIES. 


After a pause Josephine added : 

“He seemed to drag himself along.” 

“ Oh, did he ?” cried Laure, carelessly. “Here 
we are ; we are just at home.” 

“I am glad of it,” said Josephine, “ verv 
glad.” 

“ Will you go up stairs and put on y out- 
go wn ?” 

“ Presently. Let us walk in the Pleasanco 
a minute first for the air.” 

They walked in the Pleasance. 

“ How you tear along, Josephine ! Stop, let 
me look at you ! What is the matter ?” 

“ Nothing ! nothing !” 

“There’s a fretful tone; and how excited 
you are, why, you burn all over. Well, it’s no 
wonder; I thought you were calmer than nat- 
ural after such an event.” 

“Who could he be, Laure?” 

“Who?” 

“ That officer. I only saw his back : but did 
you not see him, Laure ?” 

“No.” 

“ Are you sure you did not see him at all ?” 

“ Why, of course not : I don’t believe there 
\vas one ; I am wrong ; for there comes his 
cocked hat : I can see it bob every now and then 
above the palings.” 

Josephine turned very slowly round and look- 
ed : she said nothing. 

“Come, dear,” said Laure, “let us go in: 
the only cocked hat we care for is on the way to 
Paris !” 

“Yes, Laure: let us go in. No! I can’t go 
in, — I feel faint: I want air : I shall stay out a 
little longer ! Look, Laure, what a shame ! 
They put all manner of rubbish into this dear 
old tree : I will have it all turned out I” and she 
looked with feigned interest into the tree ; but 
her eyes seemed turned inward. 

Laure gave a cry of surprise. 

“ Josephine !” 

“What? What?” 

“ He is waving his hat to me ! What on earth 
does that mean?” 

“ He takes you for me !” said Josephine. 

“Who is it?” 

“7; is he! I knew his figure at a glance!” 
and she blushed and trembled with joy; she 
darted into the tree and tried to look through 
the apertures : but she could not see at that 
angle: turning round she found Laure at her 
back, pale and stern. 

“ Ah ! Laure, I forgot ! !” 

“ Are you mad, J osephine ? into the house this 
moment, — if it is he, I will receive and dismiss 
him. Fly ! quick ! for Heaven’s sake.” 

“I can’t! I must hear! oh, don’t fear! he 
shall never see me ! I must know why he comes 
here to-day and not for all these years : some 
mystery is here ; something terrible is going to 
hai)pen ! something terrible ! — terrible ! — ter- 
rible ! — go outside ; let him see you ! — oh ! — ” 

Laure no sooner got round the tree again, 
than the cocked hat stopped, — a pale face, with 
eyes whose eager fire shone all that w-ay into the 
tree, rose up and looked over the palings, and 
never moved. 

Josephine’s eyes were fixed on it. 

“ I feel something terrible coming ! something 
terrible! terrible!” 


“Malediction on him, heartless, selfish trai- 
tor !” cried Laure. “ He has deserted you thes^ 
three years ; they have told him you are mar- 
ried: so he hunts you directly, to destroy your 
peace. Ah ! I am glad you are come, wretch, 
to hear that a better man than you has got her : 
Josephine you listen : I will tell him that you have 
a husband whom you love as you never loved him ; 
and that if he dares to show his face here you 
will laugh at him, and your husband will kill 
him or kick him. Oh, I’ll insult the lache ; I’ll 
insult him as you never saw a man insulted yet.” 

“ No, you will not !” said Josephine, dogged- 
ly ; “ for I should hate you.” 

“ Ah ! Josephine ! — cruel Josephine. The 
accursed wretch ! for him you have stabbed 
me ! ” 

“And you me! Unmask him, and I will 
bless you on my knees ! But pray do not insult 
him. We are parted forever. Be wise now, 
girl, be shrewd,” hissed Josephine, in a tone of 
which one would not have thought her capable. 
“Find out who is the woman who has seduced 
him from me, and has brought two wretches to 
this ! I tell you it is some bad woman’s doing ! 
He loved me once.” 

“ Not so loud ! — one word ! — you are a wife ! 
You will not let him see you, — swear!” 

“Oh, never! never! Death sooner! When 
you have heard all, then tell him I am. gone — 
tell him I went to Egypt this day with him I — 
Ah ! would to God I had !” 

“Sh! sh!” 

“Sh!” 

Camille was at the little gate. 

Laure stood still, and nerved herself in silence. 
Josephine panted in her hiding-place. 

Laure’s only thought now was to expose the 
traitor to her sister, and restore her to that sweet 
peace. She would not see Camille till he was 
near her. He came eagerly towards her, his 
pale face flushing with great joy, and his eyes 
like diamonds. 

“Josephine ! it is not Josephine ! Why this 
must be Laure, little Laure grown up to a fine 
lady, a beautiful lady — my darling! !” 

“ What do you come here for, monsieur?” 
asked Laure, in a tone of icy indifference. 

“What do I come here for? is that the way 
to speak to me? but I am too happy to mind’. 
Dear Beaurepaire! do I see you once again? 
Ah, Laure, I am not given to despair, but there 
have been moments, look you — Bah ! it is past. 

I am here.” 

“And madame ?” 

“What madame?” 

“Madame Dujardin that is or was to be.” 

“ This is. the first I have ever heard of her,” 
said Camille gayly. 

“ This is odd, for we have heard all about it.” 

“ Are you jesting ?” 

“No!” 

“ If I understand you right, you imply that I 
have broken faith with Josephine ?” 

“Certainly!” 

“You lie! Mademoiselle Laure do Beaure- 
paire.” 

“ Insolent !” 

“No! it is you who have insulted your sister 
as well as me. She was not made to be desert- 
ed for meaner women. With me it lias ever 
been one God, one Josephine ! Come, made- 


WHITE LIES. 


moiselle, insult me, nnd me alone, and you shall 
find me more patient. Oh, who would have 
thought Beaurepaire would receive me thus?” 

“ It is your own fault.” 

“ Are you sure ?” 

“Positive.” 

“ Not my misfortune ?” 

“You never sent her a line for all these years.” 

“ Alas, no ! how could I ?” 

“Nonsense: well, monsieur, the information 
you did not supply others did.” 

“ All the better ? who? how?” 

“We know from excellent authority that you 
deserted to the enemy.” 

“I! Camille Dujardin — deserted! Josephine, 
why are you not here ? I know how to answer 
a man who insults me, but what can I say to a 
woman ? O God, do you hear what they say to 
me after all I have gone through ?” 

“Ah, monsieur, you act well!” said Laure, 
acting herself, for her heart began to quake : 
“ let us cut this short : you were seen in a Span- 
ish village drinking between two guerrillas ?” 

“Well!” 

“An honest French soldier fired at vou ?” 

“ He did.” ^ ' 

“ You confess it,” cried Laure, joyfully. 

“The bullet passed through my hand, — here 
is the mark, look.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! Ho and his comrades, told us all.” 
“All?” 

“All!” 

“Did he tell you that under the table I was 
chained tight down to the chair I sat in ? Did 
he tell you that my hand was fastened to a drink- 
ing-horn, and my elbow to the table, and two 
fellows sitting opposite me with ])istols quietly 
covering me, ready to draw the trigger if I should 
utter a cry ? Did he tell you that I would have 
uttered that cry and died at that table but for 
one thing? — I had promised her to live.” 

“ What an improbable story !” said Laure, but 
her voice trembled. “ Besides, what became of 
you this three years ? Not a word, — not a line.” 

“ Mademoiselle,” began Camille, very coldly, 
“ if you are really my Josephine’s sister, you will 
reproach yourself for this so bitterly that I need 
not reproach you. If she I love were to share 
these unworthy suspicions it would kill me on 
the spot. I am then on my defense. I feel my- 
self blush, — God ! — but it is for you I blush, not 
for myself. This is what became of me, I went 
out afone to explore. I fell into an ambuscade. 
I was surrounded. I shot one of them, and 
pinked another, but my arm being broken by a 
bullet, and my horse killed under me, the rascals 
got me. I was in fact insensible, probably from 
loss of blood, — a cut in the thigh. These fellows 
throw their knives with great force and skill. 
They took me about with them, tried to make a 
decoy of me, as I have told you, and ended by 
throwing me into a dungeon, — a damp, dark 
dungeon. They loaded me with chains too, 
though the walls were ten feet thick, and the 
door iron and bolted and double-bolted outside. 
And there for months and years, in spite of 
wounds, hunger, thirst, and all the tortures those 
cowards made me suffer, I lived, because, Laure, 
I had promised some one at that gate there” 
(and he turned suddenly and pointed to it) 
“ that I would come back alive. At last one 
niglit my jailer came to my cell drunk. I seized 


97 

him by the throat and throttled him : I did not 
kill him, but I griped him till he was insensible : 
his keys unlocked my fetters, and locked them 
again upon his limbs, and locked him in the cell, 
and I got safely outside. But there a sentinel 
saw me, and fired at me. He missed me, but 
ran after me, and caught me, — for I was stiff, 
confined so long,— he gave me a thrust of his 
bayonet, I flung my heavy keys fiercely in his 
face, — he staggered*^, — I wrested his piece from 
him, and disabled him.” 

“Ah!” 

“I crossed the frontier in the night, and got 
to Bayonne ; and thence, day and night, to Paris. 
There I met a reward for all my anguish. A 
greater is behind, a greater is behind! They 
gave me the epaulettes of a colonel. See, here 
they are. France does not give these to traitors, 
young lady. And from the moment I left dark 
Spain and entered once more la belle France^ 
every man and woman on the road was so kind, 
so sympathizing ; some cried after me, ‘ God 
speed you !’ They felt for the poor worn soldier 
coming back to his love. All but you, Laure. 
You told me I was a traitor.” 

“Forgive me. I — I — ” and she thought, 
“ 0 Heaven enlighten me, — what shall I say? — 
what shall I do ?” 

“Oh, if you repent,” cried he, “that is dif- 
ferent, I forgive you. There is my hand. You 
are not a soldier, and did not know what you 
were talking about. I am very sorry I spoke so 
harshly to you. But you understand. How you 
look ! How you pant ! Poor child ! I forgive 
you. There, I will show you how I forgive you. 
These epaulettes, dear, — I have never put them 
on. I said. No, Josephine shall put them on for 
me. I will take honor as well as happiness from 
her dear hand. But you are her sister, and 
W'hat are epaulettes compared with what she will 
give me ? You shall put them on, dear. Come ; 
then you will be sure I bear no malice.” 

Laure, faint at heart, consented in silence, 
and fastened on the epaulettes. “Yes, Camille,” 
she said, “ think of glory now : nothing but 
glory. ” 

“ No one thinks of it more. But to-day how 
can I think of it, how can I give her a rival ? 
To-day, I am all love. Laure, no man ever 
loved a human creature as I love Josephine. 
Your mother is well, dear? All are well at 
Beaurepaire? Oh, where is she all this time? 
in the house ?” He was moving quickly towards 
the house : but Laure in turn put out her hand 
to stop him. He recoiled a little and winced. 

“What is the matter?” cried she. 

“ Nothing, dear girl ; you put your hand on 
my wound, — that is all.” 

“Oh, you arc wounded?” 

“Yes; I got a bayonet-thrust from one of 
the sentinels when I escaped from prison. It is 
a little inflamed, I will tell you ; but you must 
promise not to tell Josephine; why vex that 
angel? This wound has worried me a little all 
the way. They wanted me to stop and lay up 
at Bayonne, — how could I? and again at Paris, 
— how could I? They said, ‘ You will die.’ 
‘Not before I get to Beaurepaire,’ said I. I 
could bear the motion of a horse no longer. I 
asked for a carriage. Would you believe it? 
— both his carriages were efut at a w’edding. I 
could no* w.ait till they came back. I have wait- 


98 


WHITE LIES. 


cd an eterniiy. I came on foot. I tlrapped my- ' 
self along, — the body was weak, but the heart 
w'as strong. A little way from liere my w’ound 
seemed inclined to open ; I j)ressed it together 
tight with my hand ; you see I could not afford 
to lose any more blood, and so struggled on. 
‘Die?’ said I, ‘not before Beaurepaire.’ And 
()h, Laure, now I could be content to die, — at 
her feet, — for I am happy! — oh, I am happy! 
What I have gone through ! But I kept toy 
word, — and this is Beaurepaire! Hurrah!” — 
and his pale cheek flushed feebly, and his eye 
gleamed, and he waived his hat feebly over his 
head, — “hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” 

“ Oh, don’t ! — don’t ! — don’t !” 

“How can I help? — I am wild with joy, — 
hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” 

‘‘Oil no! no! no! no! no!” 

“ What is the matter ?” 

“ Oh ! must I stab you w’orse than all your 
enemies have stabbed you !” 

“ What is the matter? You turn me cold, — 
very cold. What is the matter? Josephine 
does not come. My heart !” 

“Camille, — my poor Camille! there is but 
one thing for you to do. Leave Beaurepaire on 
the instant, — fly from it, — it is no place for you.” 

“ She is dead !” 

‘- No.” 

“She is dead! — she does not come to me, — 
she is dead ! You are all in white, — they mourn 
in white for angels like her that go to Heaven, 
— virgins! Oh! I was blind. You might have 
told me at once. You see I can bear it. What 
tloes it matter to one w’ho loves as I love? It is 
only to give her one more proof I lived only for 
her. I would have died a hundred times but 
for my promise to her. Yes ! I am coming, love ! 

I am coming !” 

He fell on his knees and smiled, and whisper- 
ed : 

“I am coming, Josephine, — I am coming!” 

A sob and a moan as of a creature dying in 
anguish answered him. 

Laure screamed with terror when she heard 
it. 

Camille rose wildly to his feet. 

“I hear her! she is behind the tree.” 

“ No ! no !” 

A rustle and a rush were heard in the tree. 

Camille darted furiously round the tree. 
Laure followed the next moment. 

Josephine was in his arras. 

Josephine wrestled long and terribly with 
nature in that old oak-tree. But who can so 
struggle forever? Anguish, remorse, horror, 
despair, and love wu'enched her heart to and fro, 
like giants fighting for a prey : and oh ! mysteri- | 
ous human heart! gleams of a mad fitful joy, 
shot through her, coming quick as lightning, 
going as quickly, and leaving the despair darker. 
And oh ! the fierce struggle of the soul to make 
itself heard. More than once she had to close 
her mouth with her hand : more than once she 
seized her throat, not to cry out. But, as the 
struggle endured, she got weaker and weaker, 
and nature mightier and mightier. And when 
the wounded hero fell on his knees so close to 
her, when he who had resisted death so bravely 
for her prepared to give up life calmly for her, 
her bosom rose beyond all control : it seemed j 


to fill to choking, then to split wide open and 
give the struggling soul passage in one gasping 
sob and heart-stricken cry. 

Could she have pent this in, she must have 
died. 

It betrayed her. She felt it had : then came 
the woman’s instinct, flight : the coward’s im- 
pulse, flight ; the chaste wife’s instinct, flight. 
She rushed from her hiding-place and made 
wildly for the house. 

But Camille was darting round the tree. She 
ran right upon him. Hc.caught her in his arms. 
He held her irrcsistibl3% “ I have got her, — 
I have got hei\” he sho>uted in wild triumph. 
“ No ! I wall not let you go. None but God 
shall ever take you from me, and he has spared 
you to me. You are not dead : you have kept 
faith as I have ! You have lived. See ! look at 
me. I am alive, — I am well, — I am happy. I 
told Laure I had suffered. I lied. If I had suf- 
fered I should remember it. It is all gone at 
sight of you', my love! my love! Oh, my Jose- 
phine ! my love !” 

His arm w.as firm round her waist. His glow- 
ing eyes poured love upon her. She felt his beat- 
ing heart. 

All that passed in her, — what mortal can say ? 
She seemed two women; that part of her which 
could not getnway from his strong arm lost all 
strength to resist, — it yielded and thrilled -under 
his embrace, her bosom heaving madly ; all that 
was free writhed away from him ; her face was 
averted with a glare of terror, and both her 
hands put up between his eyes and it. 

“You turn away your head. Laure, she turns 
away. Speak for me. Scold her ; for I don’t 
know how to scold her. No answer from either ; 
oh, what has turned your hearts against me so?” 

“ Camille,” cried Laure, the tears streaming 
down her cheeks, “ my poor Camille ! leave 
Beaurepaire. Oh, leave it at once.” 

He turned towards her with a look of inquiry. 

At that Josephine, like some feeble but nimble 
wild creature on whom a grasp has relaxed, 
writhed away from him and fled. “Farewell ! 
Farewell !” she cried. 

It seemed despair itself who spoke. 

She had not taken six steps when Jacintha 
met her right in front. “ Madame Raynal,” she 
cried, courtesying, “ the baroness is in the sum- 
mer-house, and wants to speak to you. I was 
the first to call her madame;” and Jacintha, 
little dreaming of all she had done, went off in 
triumph, after another courtesy. 

This blow turned those three to stone. 

Josephine had no longer the power or the 
wish to fly. “ Better so,” she thought, and she 
stood cowering. Then the great passions that 
had spoken so loud were struck dumb, and a 
deep silence fell upon the place. Madame Bay- 
nal’s quivering eye turned slowly and askant to- 
wards Camille, but stopped in terror ere it could 
see him. 

Silence, — dead silence ! 

The ladies knew by this fearful stillness that 
the truth was creeping on Camille. 

Madame Kaynal cowered more and more. 

Camille spoke one word in a low whisper: 

“ Madame ?” 

Dead silence. 

“White? both in white?” 

“ Camille, it was our doing. We drove her 


WHITE LIES. 


09 


to it. Oh, sir, look how afraid of you she is. 
Do not kill her ; do not reproach her, if you are 
a man.” 

He waved her out of his way as if she had 
been some idle feather, and he walked up to Jo- 
sephine. “It is for you to speak to me, my be- 
trothed. Are you married ?” The poor crea- 
ture, true to her nature, was thinking more of 
him than herself. Even in her despair it flaslied 
across her, “ If he knew all, h& too would be 
wretched for life. If I let him scorn me, he 
may be happy one day.” She cowered, the pic- 
ture of sorrow and tongue-tied guilt. 

“ Are you a wife ?” 

“ Yes !” 

He staggered. 

“ This is how I came to be suspected : she I 
loved was false?” 

“ Yes, Camille.” 

“ No ! no !” cried Laure. She alone never 
suspected you ; and we have brought her to this, 
— we alone.” 

“ Be silent, Laure; oh, be silent! ! !” gasped 
Josephine. 

“ I lived for you : I would have died for you : 
you could not even wait for me.” 

A low moan, but not a word of excuse. 

“ What can I do for you now?” 

“ Forget me, Camille !” 

“ Forget you ! Oh, never ! never ! There is 
but one thing I can do to show you how I loved 
you, — forgive you, and begone. Whither shall 
I go ? whither shall I go now ?” 

“ Oh, Camille, your words stab her: she — ” 

“ Be silent! let none speak but I, — none here 
but I has the right to speak. Poor weak angel 
that loved yet could not wait : I forgive you ! be 
happy! — if you can — I bid you be happy !” 

The gentle, despairing tones died away, and 
with them life seemed to end to her, and hope 
to go out. He turned his back quickly on her. 
“To the army!” he cried, hoarsely. He drew 
himself haughtily up in marching attitude. He 
took three strides, erect and fiery and bold. At 
the fourth the great heart snapped, and the worn 
body it had held up so long rolled like a dead 
log upon the ground with a tremendous fall. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The baroness and St. Aubin were walking 
gently on the South Terrace, when suddenly 
they heard shrieks of terror in the Pleasance. 
They came with quaking hearts as fast as their 
old limbs would carry them. They found Laure 
and Josephine crouclied over the body of a man, 
— an oificer. 

Laure was just tearing open his collar and 
jacket. Dat'd and Jacintha had run from the 
kitchen at the screams. Camille lay on his back, 
white and motionless. 

The doctor now came up. “Who! what is 
this?” He shook his he.ad. “This is a bad 
case. Stand away, ladies. Let me feel his pulse.” 

Whilst the old* man was going stiffly down on 
one knee, Jacintha uttered a cry of terror. 
“ See ! see ! his shirt ! that red streak ! Ah ! 
ah ! it is getting bigger and bigger and she 
turned fiiint in a moment and would have fallen 
but for Dat'd. 


The doctor looked. “All the better,” said 
he firmly. “ I thought he was dead ! His blood 
flows: then I will save him! Don’t clutch me 
so, Josephine, — don’t cling to me like that. 
Now is the time to show your breed ; not turn 
sick at the sight of a little blood like that fool- 
ish creature ; but help me save the poor man.” 

“ Take him in-doors !” cried the baroness. 

“Into our house, mamma?” gasped Laure. 

“ The lightning would strike it if we did not !” 
cried the baroness. “What! a wounded sol- 
dier who has fought for France ! leave him to 
lie and die outside my door ! — never ! what 
would my son say ? He is a soldier.” 

Laure cast a hasty look at Josephine ; Jose- 
phine’s eyes were bent on the ground, and her 
hands clenched. 

“ Now, Jacintha, you be off!” cried the doc- 
tor. “ I can’t have cow'ards about him to make 
the others as bad ; go and stew down a piece of 
good beef for him, my girl.” 

“ That I will ; poor thing.’^ 

The baroness recognized Camille. 

“ Whv, I know him : it is an old acquaintance, 
young Dujardin, — you remember, Josephine ; I 
used to suspect him of a fancy for you, poor fel- 
low ! Why he must have come here to see us, — 
poor soul.” 

“No matter who it is, — it is a man. Now, 
girls, have you courage, have you humanity? 
Then come one on each side of him and take 
hands beneath his back, while I lift his head and 
Dard his legs.” 

Dat'd assented. 

“ And handle him gently, monsieur, whatever 
you do,” said Dard. “I know what it is. I 
have been wounded.” 

These four carried the lifeless burden very 
slowly and gently across the Pleasance to the 
house ; then with more difficulty and caution up 
the stairs. 

All the while the sisters’ hands griped one an- 
other tight beneath the lifeless burden, and spoke 
to one another. And Josephine’s arm upheld 
tenderly but not weakly the hero she had struck 
down. She avoided Laure’s eye, her mother’s 
eye, and even the doctor’s eye ; one gasping sob 
escaped her as she walked with head half averted 
and vacant, terror-stricken eyes, and her victim 
on her sustaining arm. 

They laid him in the tapestried chamber. 

“ I must have an airy room for him,” said the 
doetor. “Now, away with you, girls: Dard, 
help me undress him.” 

Laure took Josephine’s hand: “Sit on the 
stairs,” said she: “then when Dard comes out 
we shall hear.” 

Josei)hine obeyed passively. She sat in gloomy 
silence, her eyes on the ground, like one waiting 
for her deathblow. 

Laure, sick at heart, sat silent too. At last 
she said faintly, “ Have we done well ?” 

“I don't know,” said Josephine, doggedly. 
Her eyes never left the ground. 

“We could not let him die for want of care and 
skill. He will not thank us, my sister. Better 
to die than live.” 

At tills instant Dard came running down. 

“ Good news ! Mesdemoisellcs, good nows ! the 
wound runs all along : it is not deep, like mine 
was. lie has opened his eyes and shut them 
again. The dear good doctor stopped the blood 


100 


WHITE LIES. 


in a twinkle. The doctor says he’ll be bound to 
save him. I must run and tell Jacintha. She 
is taking on in the kitchen.” 

Josephine, wliohad risen eagerly from her de- 
spairing posture, clasped her hands together; then 
lifted up her voice and wept. 

“ He will live ! he will live !” 

When she had wept a long time she said to 
Laure: “Come, my sister, help your poor Jo- 
sephine.” 

“Yes, love, what?” 

“My duty,” faltered Josephine, — “my duty 
that an hour ago seemed so sweet.” And she 
fell to weeping patiently again. 

They went to Josephine’s room. She crept 
slowly to a wardrobe, and took out a gray silk 
dress. 

“Oh, never mind for to-day,” cried Laure. 
“Alas! alas!” 

“Help me, my sister. It is for myself as 
well.” 

“For yourself?” 

“ To remind me every moment I am Madame 
Kaynal. ’ 

They put the gray gown on her, both weeping 
patiently. It will be known at the last day what 
honest women have suffered weeping silently in 
this noisy world. 

Camille soon recovered his senses and a portion 
of his strength : then the irritation of his wound 
brought on fever. This in turn retired before 
the doctor’s remedies and a sound constitution ; 
but it left behind it a great weakness and general 
prostration. And in this state the fate of the 
body depends greatly on the mind. 

The baroness and the doctor went constantly 
to see him and to soothe him: he smiled and 
often thanked them, but his eager eyes watched 
the door for one who came not. 

When he got well enough to leave his bed 
the largest couch was sent up to him from the 
saloon ; a kind hand lined the baron’s silk dress- 
ing-gown for him w'arm and soft and nice : and 
he would sit or lie on his couch, or take two 
turns in the room leaning upon Laure’s shoul- 
der, and glad of the support : and oh, he looked 
so piteously in her eyes when she came, and 
when she went. Laure lowered her eyes before 
them, — she could do nothing, — she could say 
nothing. 

She saw that with his strength Camille had 
lost a portion of his pride : that he pined for a 
sight of her he no longer respected : pined for 
Jier — as the thirsty pine for water in Sahara. 

At last one day he spoke. 

“ How kind you are to me, Laure ! how kind 
you all are,— but one.” 

He waited in hopes she would say something, 
but she held her tongue. 

“ At least tell me why it is. Is she ashamed? 
Is she afraid ?” 

“ Neither.” 

“She hates me? it is then true that we hate 
those whom we have wounded. Cruel ! cruel 
Josephine. Oh, heart of marble, against which 
my heart has wrecked itself forever !” 

“Alas! she is not cruel, — but she is Madame 
Raynal.” 

“ Ah ! I forgot ! But have I no claim on her ? 
Nearly four years she has been my betrothed. 
What have I done ! Was I ever false to her ? 

I could forgive her for what she has done to me, 


but she can not forgive me. Does she mean 
never to see me again ?” 

“What good could come of it?” 

“Very well,” said Camille, with a malicious 
smile. “I am in her way. I see what she 
wants, — she shall have it.” 

Laure carried these words to J osephine. They 
went through her like a sword. 

Laure pitied her. 

“ Let us go t8 him. Any thing is better than 
this.” 

“Laure, I dare not.” 

The next day early, Josephine took Laure to a 
door outside the house, a door that had long been 
disused. Nettles grew before it. She produced 
a key, and with great difficulty opened this door. 

“ Ah ! it is a good many years since I have 
been in there,” said Laure. “Why, Josephine, 
it leads to the tapestry chamber.” 

“Yes.” 

“ What am I to do ?” 

“ Watch him ! you remember where we used 
to peep through into the room ?” 

“Yes ! Ah, how happy we were then.” 

“ Watch him, as a mother does her child. Oh, 
if any thing happens to him while he is under my 
care — ” 

“ Be calm, love, do not fear, I will watch him. 
I share your misgivings, your fears, I share all 
with you.” 

“ My sister ! my Laure ! my guardian angel ! 
oh, if I had not you, who know what a miserable 
woman I am, I should go raving mad !” 

When Josephine had placed Camille under this 
strange surveillance, she felt a little, a very little 
easier, she hardly knew why ; for in truth it was 
a vague protection against a danger equally mys- 
terious. So great was Josephine’s forethought, 
so unflinching her determination, that she never 
once could be prevailed on to mount those stairs, 
and peep at Camille herself. “ I must starve my 
heart, not feed it.” And she grew paler and 
more hollow-eyed day by day. 

Yet this was the same woman who showed such 
feebleness and irresolution when Raynal pressed 
her to marry him. 

But then, dwarfs feebly drew her this way and 
that. Now giants fought for her. Between a 
feeble inclination and a feeble disinclination her 
dead heart drifted to and fro. Now honor, duty, 
gratitude, which with her was a passion, dragged 
her one way, love, pity, and remorse another. 

Neither of these giants would relax his grasp, 
and nothing yielded except her vital powers. 
Yes ; her temper — the loveliest temper Heaven 
ever gave a human creature — was soured at 
times. 

There lay the. man she loved pining for her. 
Cursing her for her cruelty, — praying Heaven to 
forgive him and to bless her, and curse him in- 
stead,— sighing, at intervals, all the day long so 
loud, so deep, so piteously, as if his heart broke 
with each sigh ; and sometimes, for he little knew, 
poor soul, that any human eye was upon him, 
casting aside his manhood in his despair, and 
flinging himself on the very floor, and muffling 
his head, and sobbing — he, a hero. 

And here was she pining in secret for him 
who pined for her. “ I am not a woman at all, ” 
cried she, who was all woman. “ I am crueller 
to him than a tiger or any savage creature is to 
the victim she tears. I must not tempt you. To 


WHITE LIES. 101 


love me now is a sin. I must cure you of your 
love for me, and then die : for what shall I have 
to live for? He weeps, he sighs, he cries for Jo- 
sephine !” 

This enforced cruelty was more contrary to 
this woman’s nature as well as to her heart than 
black is to white, or heat to cold ; and Nature 
rebelled with all her forces. As when a rock 
tries to stem a current, the waiter fights its way on 
more sides than one, so insulted Nature dealt 
with Josephine. Not only did her body pine, 
but her nerves were exasperated. Sudden twitch- 
es came over her, that almost made her scream. 
Her permanent state was utter despondency 
but across it came fitful flashes of irritation ; and 
then she was scarce mistress of herself. 

Wherefore, you who find some holy women cross 
and bitter, stop a moment before you sum her 
up vixen, and her religion naught : inquire the 
history of her heart : perchance, beneath the 
smooth, cold surface of duties well discharged, 
her life has been, or even is, a battle against 
some self-indulgence the insignificant saint’s very 
blood cries out for : and so the poor thing is 
cross, not because she is bad, but because she 
is better than the rest of us, — yet human. 

As for Josephine’s little bursts of fretfulness, 
they were always followed by disproportionate 
penitence and pathetic eiforts to be so very kind 
to those wliom she had scratched, and then felt 
for as if she had ploughed great bleeding fur- 
rows in them. 

Now, though she was more on her guard with 
the baroness than with Laure, or the doctor, or 
Jacintha, her state could not altogether escape 
the vigilance of a mother’s eye. 

But the baroness had not the clue we have. 

That makes all the difference: how small an 
understanding put by accident or instruction on 
Ihe right track shall run the game down : how 
great a sagacity shall wander if it gets on a false 
scent. * 

“Doctor, you are so taken up with your pa- 
tient, you neglect the rest of us. Do look at 
Josephine ! She is ill !” 

“No, madame, or she would have told me.” 

“Well, then, she is going to be ill. She is so 
pale, and so fretful, so peevish, which is not in 
her natures Would you believe it, doctor, she 
snaps?” 

“ Our Josephine snap ? This is new.” 

“ And snarls !” 

“Then look for the end of the world.” 

“The other day I heard her snap Laure; 
and this morning she half snarled at me, just be- 
cause I pressed her to go and console our pa- 
tient. Hush! here she is. My child, I am 
accusing you to monsieur here. I am telling 
him you neglect his patient.” 

“i, mamma?” 

“You never go near him.” 

“I will visit him one of these days,” said 
Josephine, coldly. 

“ One of these days, my daughter ! You used 
not to be so hard-hearted. A soldier, an old 
comrade of your husband’s, wounded and sick, 
and you alone never go to him to console him 
with a word of sympathy or encouragement.” 


#* Vide all authentic records of man’s reasonings and 
inventions: for climax plunge from NevVton reasoning as- 
tronomy down to Newton reasoning alchemy. 


Josephine looked at her mother with a sort 
of incredulous stare. 

“I do not recognize you. You ^ho are so 
kind-hearted and pitiful, except to wounded sol- 
diers.” 

Josephine smiled bitterly. Then after a strug- 
gle she replied with a tone and manner so spite- 
ful and icy that it would have deceived even us 
w'ho know her, had we heard it. 

“He has plenty of nurses without me,” she 
added, almost violently. “ My husband, if he 
were wounded, would not have so many, per- 
haps not have one.” 

With this she rose and w'ent out, leaving them 
aghast. She sat down in the passage on a win- 
dow-seat, and laughed hysterically. 

Laure heard her and ran to her. Josephine 
told lier what her mother had said to her. Laure 
•soothed her. 

“ Never mind. You have your sister who un- 
derstands you : don’t come in till they have got 
some other topic.” 

Laure out of curiosity w^ent in, and found a 
discussion going on. The doctor was fathoming 
Josephine for the benefit of his companion. 

“It is a female jealousy; and of a mighty 
innocent kind. We are so occupied with this 
poor fellow, she thinks her soldier is forgotten.” 

“ Surely, doctor, our Josephine would not be 
so unreasonable, so unjust.” 

“ She belongs to a sex, be it said without of- 
fending you, madame, among whose numberless 
virtues justice does not fill a prominent place.” 

The baroness shook her head. 

“That is not it. It is a piece of prudery. 
This young gentleman was a sort of admirer of 
hers, though she did not admire him much, as 
far as I remember. But it was four years ago : 
and she is married to a man she loves, or is going 
to love.” 

“Well, but, mamma, a trifling excess of deli- 
cacy is surely excusable.” 

“It is not delicacy: it is prudery. And, 
when people are sick and suffering, an honest 
w'oman should take up her charity, and lay down 
her prudery or her coquetry: two things that I 
suspect are the same thing in different shapes.” 

Here Jacintha came in. 

“ Mademoiselle, here is the colonel’s broth : 
Madame Raynal has flavored it for him, and 
you are to tahe it up to him and keep him com- 
pany while he eats it.” 

“ Come,” cried the baroness, “ my lecture has 
not been lost.” 

Laure followed Jacintha up-stairs. Laure 
was heart and head on Raynal s side. 

She had deceived him about Josephine’s at- 
tachment, and felt all the more desirous to guard 
him against any ill consequences of it. Then 
he had been so generous to her ; he had left her 
her sister, w'ho would have gone to Egypt, and 
escaped this misery, but for her. 

But on the other hand, if I may use a great 
master’s w’ords, 

“ Gentle pity 

Tugged at her heart-strings -with complaining cries.” * 

This w’atching of Camille made her wretched. 
When she was with him his pride bore him up ; 
but w'hen he was alone, as he thought, his an- 
guish and des{)air were terrible, and broke out 
in so many ways that often Laure shrank in ter- 
ror from her peep-hole. 


102 


WIIITK LIES. 


She dared not tell Josephine the half of what 
she saw : what she did tell her agitated her so 
terribly ; and often Lanre had it on the tip of 
her tongue to say, “Do pray go and see if you 
can say nothing that will do him good but 
she fought the impulse down. This battle of 
feeling, though less severe than her sister’s, was 
constant : it destroyed her gayety. She whose 
merry laugh used to ring like chimes through 
the house never laughed now, seldom smiled, 
and often sighed. The elders felt a deep gloom 
settle down upon the house. 

One evening the baroness, Josephine, and St. 
Aubin sat in the saloon, in dead silence. 

Doctor St. Aubin had been the last to suc- 
cumb to the deep depression, but for a day or 
two he had been as grave and as sad as the 
rest. 

He now broke silence. 

“ I am glad Laure is out of the room,” said 
he, thoughtfully; “ I wish to consult you two.” 

“We listen, my friend,” said the baroness 
with interest. 

“It is humiliating, after all my experience, 
to be obliged to consult unprofessional persons. 
Forty years ago I should have been too wise to 
do so. But since then I have often seen science 
baffled and untrained intelligences throw light 
upon hard questions ; and your sex in particular 
has luminous instincts and reads things by flashes 
that we men miss with a microscope. Our dear 
Madame Raynal read that, notary, and to this 
day I believe she could not tell us how.” 

“ I know very well how I read him, dear 
friend.” 

“How?” 

“Oh, I can’t tell how.” 

“There you see. Well, then, you must help 
me in this case. And this time I promise to 
treat your art with more respect.” 

“And who is it she is to read now?” asked 
the baroness. 

Josephine said nothing, but trembled, and was 
seeretly but keenly on her guard. 

“ Who should it be but my poor patient ? 
He puzzles me. 1 never knew a patient so 
faint-hearted.” 

“A soldier faint-hearted !” exelaimed the bar- 
oness. “To be sure these men that storm cities and 
fire cannon, and cut and hack one another with 
so much spirit, are poor creatures compared with 
us when they have to lie quiet and suffer.” 

“Josephine,” said the doctor, abruptly, “do 
you know Colonel Dujardin’s character ?” 

“No! yes! by the bulletins of the army, — 
long ago.” 

“ Do you know his history ?” 

“No, — yes. He told Laure; and she told 
me. He was taken prisoner in Spain. The 
cowards made him suffer tortures. Oh, doctor! 
he is alive by a miracle. I can not think that 
Heaven will desert him now. Do send for 
Laure ; she will tell you belter than I can all he 
has gone through.” 

“No,” said St. Aubin, “you mistake me. 
That is not what I want to know. It is not the 
past but the present that gives me so much con- 
cern. Past dangers are present delights.” 

“ Doctor, what do you mean ?” 

“I mean this, that ho ought to get well, and 
does not. But it is not my fault: no man can 
be cured without his own help; and he will not 


put a finger to the work. Patients conplain of 
our indifference : it is not so here : I am all 
I anxiety and zeal, and my sick man is his own 
by-stander apathetic as a log.” 
i The doctor walked the room in great excite- 
: ment. 

! “Ladies, for pity’s sake help me: get his 
history from him, and tell it me : you, Josej)hine, 

, with your instincts, do for pity’s sake help me : 

! do throw off that sublime indifference you have 
manifested all along to this man’s fate.” 

“ She has not !” cried the baroness, firing up. 
“ She lined his dressing-gown for him ; and she 
„ inspects every thing that he eats : do you not ?” 
“ Yes ! my mother.” 

“Have patience, my friend: time will cure 
your patient, and time alone.” 

“Time! you speak as if time was a quality: 
time is only a measure of events, favorable or 
unfit vorable : time kills as many as it cures.” 

“ Why, doctor, you surely would not imply 
his life is in any danger?” 

“Should I be saying all this if it was not? 
Must I speak out? Well then I will. If some 
change does not take place soon, he will be a 
dead man in another fortnight. That is all time 
will do for him. Now.” 

The baroness uttered an exclamation of pity 
and distress. 

Josephine put her hand to her bosom, and a 
creeping horror came over her, and then a faint- 
ness. Suddenly she rushed from the room. 
In the passage she met Laure coming hastily 
towards the salon laughing : the first time she 
had laughed this many a day. Oh, what a con- 
trast between the two faces that met there, — 
the one pale and horror-stricken, the other rosy 
and laughing !” 

“Well, dear, at last I am paid for all my 
trouble. I have found my lord out. What do 
you think he does? What is the matter?” 

“Nothing, — tell me! tell me!” 

“You are agitated, Josephine. My sister, — 
my sweet sister ! What have they been doing 
to you now? You want my story first? Very 
well. Oh, the doctor would be in a fine rage if 
he knew it.” 

“The doctor?” 

“Yes! it is soon told. Camille never takes 
a drop of his medicine. He pours it into the 
ashes under the grate. I saw him. I caught 
him in the act, — ha! ha!” 

Josephine stared wildly at Laure to hear her 
laugh. 

“ Ah ! I forgot : you don’t know : come.” 

“Where to?” 

“To him." 

Josephine paused on the first landing. 

“ Promise me not to contradict a word I shall 
say to him. I must hide my heart from him I 
love, — yes, him I love, I adore, I worship. Ah ! 
I have got you to whom I can tell the truth, or 
I could not go on the walking lie I am. I love 
him : I adore him : I will deceive him, and save 
him, and then lie down and die.” 

“Be calm! pray be calm !” said Laure. “Oh, 
thnt he had never been born ! Say what you 
will, I will not speak. Shall I tell him you are 
coming?” 

“No. Let me have every advantage : let nte 
think beforehand every word I shall say ; hut 


WHITE LIES. 


103 


take him by surprise, coward and double-face 
that I am.” 

The sisters stood at the door. Josepliine’s 
heart beat audibly. She knocked : a faint voice 
said, “Come in.” She and Laurc entered the 
room. Camille sat on the sofa, his head bowed 
over his hands. A glance showed Josepliine 
that he was doggedly and resolutely thrusting 
himself into the grave. Thinking it was only 
Laure, for he had now lost all hope of seeing 
Josephine come in at the door, he never moved. 
Some one glided gently but rapidly up to him. 

He looked up. 

Josej)hine was kneeling to him. 

He lifted his head with a start, and trembled 
all over. 

“Camille, I am come to you to beg your pity, 
to appeal to your generosity, to ask a favor, — 1 
who deserve so little of you.” 

“ You have waited a long time,” said Camille, 
agitated greatly; “and so have I,” he added, 
bitterly. 

“ Camille, you are killing one who loved you 
once, and who has been very weak and faith- 
less, but not so wicked as she appears.” 

“ How am I killing you?” 

“With remorse, — to see you sinking into the 
tomb. Camille, is this generous of you ? Do 
I not suffer enough? Would you make me a 
jnurderess?” 

“ Then why have you never been near me ? 
I could forgive your weakness, but not your 
heartlessness.” 

“ It is my duty. I have no right to seek your 
society. If you really wanted mine you would 
get well, and so join us down-stairs a week or 
two before you leave us.” 

“ How am I to get well ? My heart is brok- 
en.” 

“ Be a man, Camille. Do not fling away a 
soldier’s life because a fickle, worthless woman 
could not wait for you. Forgive like a man, or 
revenge yourself like a man. If you can not 
forgive me, kill me. See, I kneel at your feet. 
I will not resist you. Kill me !” 

“ I wish I could. Oh, if I could kill you with 
a look and myself with a wish ! No man should 
ever take you from me then. We would be to- 
gether in the grave at this hour. Do not tempt 
me, I say I ” 

And he cast a terrible look of love, and hatred, 
and despair upon her. 

Her purple eye never winced : it poured back 
tenderness and affection in return. 

He saw and turned away with a groan, and 
held out his hand to her. 

She seized it and kissed it. “You are great, 
you are generous ; you will not strike me as a 
woman .strikes, — you will not die to drive me to 
despair.” 

“Ah ! you love me still !” 

“No! no! no! my heart is dead. But I 
loved you once. When I had a right to love 
you. A woman can not forget all. Can you ? 
Yes you can, to be revenged on poor silly Jose- 
phine.” 

“I see: love is gone,-^but pity remains; I 
thought that was gone too.” 

“ Ye.s, Camille,” said Josephine in a whisper ; 
“ pity remams, and remorse and terror at what 
I have done to a man of whom I was never wor- 
thy.” 


“Well, madamc, as ymu have come at last to 
me, and eveti do me the honor to ask me a favor, 
— I shall try — if only out of courtesy — to — ah, 
Josephine! Josephine! wheu did I ever refuse 
you any thing?” 

At this Josephine sank into a chair, and burst 
out crying. Camille at this began to cry too ; 
and the two poor things sat a long way from one 
another, and sobbed bitterly. 

The man, weakened as he was, recovered his 
quiet despair first. 

“Don’t cry so, my poor soul!” said he. 
“But tell me what is your will, and I shall obev 
you as I used before any one came between us !” 

“ Then live, Camille ! I implore you to live !” 

“Well, Josephine, since you care about it, I 
will live.” 

“Since I care! — oh! — bless you, Camille. 
How good you arc : how generous you are. You 
have promised, — you keep your promises: you 
are not like me.” 

“ Why did not you come before and ask me? 
I thought I was in your way. I thought you 
wanted me dead.” 

Josephine cast a look of wonder and anguish 
on Camille, but she said nothing. She rang the 
bell, and, on Jacintha coming up, she dispatch- 
ed her to Doctor St. Aubin for the patient’s med- 
icine. 

“ Tell the doctor,” said she, “ Colonel Dujar- 
din has let fall the glass.” 

While Jacintha was gone, she scolded Camille 
gently. 

“How could you be so unkind to the poor 
doctor, who loves you so?” 

“What have I done to him?” asked Camille, 
coloring. 

“You throw away his medicines. Do you 
think I am blind ? Look at the ashes ; they are 
wet. Camille, are you too becoming disingenu- 
ous ?” 

“ He gives me tonics that do me loo much 
good ; I could not die quick enough, — there, for- 
give me. I have promised to live, — I will live.” 

Jacintha came in with the tonic in a glass, 
and retired with an obeisance. 

Josephine took it to Camille. 

“ Drink with me, then,” said he, “or I will not 
touch it.” 

Josephine took the glass. 

“ I drink to your health, Camille, and to your 
glory : laurels to your brow, my hero ! and some 
faithful woman to your heart, who will make you 
forget this folly : it is for her I save you.” She 
put the glass with well-acted spirit to her lips ; 
but in the very action a spasm seized her throat 
and almost choked her; she lowered her head 
that he might not see her face and tried again ; 
but the tears burst from her eyes and ran into 
the liquid, and her lips trembled over the brim, 
and couldn’t. 

“ Ah ! give it me,” he cried : “ there is a tear 
of yours in it.” 

He drank off the bitter remedy now as if it 
had been nectar. 

Josephine blushed. 

“ If you wanted me to live, why did you not 
come here before ?” 

“I did not think you would be so foolish, so 
wicked, so cruel as to do what you have been 
doing.” 

“Josephine come and shine upon me every 


104 


WHITE LIES. 


day, and you shall have no fresh cause of con- 
plaint : things flourish in the sunshine that die 
in the dark: Laurc, it is as if the sun had come 
into my prison ; you are pale, but you are beauti- 
ful as ever, — more beautiful ; what a sweet dress! 
so quiet, so modest, it sets oft* your beauty instead 
of vainly trying to vie with it.'’ 

He put out his hand and took her gray silk 
dress and ^^ent to kiss it as a devotee kisses the 
altar steps. 

She snatched it furiously away with a shudder. 

“Yes, you are right,” said she; “thank you 
for noticing my dress : it is a beautiful dress, — 
ha ! ha ! A dress I take a pride in wearing, 
and always shall, I hope. I mean to be buried 
in it. Come, Laure ! Thank you, Camille ; you 
are very good, you have once more promised me 
to live. Get well ; come down-stairs ; then you 
will see me every day, you know, — there is a 
temptation. Good-bye, Camille ! — are you com- 
ing, Laure ? What are you loitering for ? God 
bless you, and comfort you, and help you to for- 
get what it is madness to remember!” 

She was gone. 

The room seemed to darken to Camille. 

Outside the door Josephine caught hold al- 
most fiercely of Laure. 

“ Have I committed myself?” 

“Over and over again. Do not look so ter- 
rified ! — I mean to me : but not to him. Oh, 
what a fool he is ! and how much better you 
must know him than I do to venture on such a 
transparent deceit. He believes whatever you 
tell him. He is all ears, and no eyes. Yes, 
love, I watched him keenly all the time. He 
really thinks it is pity and remorse ; nothing 
more. My poor sister, you have a hard life to 
lead, — a hard game to play : but so fiir you have 
succeeded : you could look poor .Kaynal in the 
face if he came home to-day.” 

“Then God be thanked,” cried Josephine. 
“ I am as happy to-day as I can ever hope to be. 
Now let us go through the farce of dressing: it 
is near dinner-time ; and then the farce of talk- 
ing, and, hardest of all, the farce of living.’’ 

From that hour, Camille began to get better 
very slowly, yet perceptibly. 

The doctor, afraid of being mistaken, said 
notliing for some days, but at last he announced 
the good news at the dinner-table. It was no 
news to either of the sisters. Laure had watch- 
ed every symptom, and had told Josephine. 
“ He is to come down-stairs in three days,” add- 
ed the doctor. 

The Baroness. “Thank Heaven ! and, now that 
anxiety is removed, I do hope you will have time 
to cure her who is dearer to us than all the 
world, ” 

Josephine. “My mother: there is nothing the 
matter with me.” 

Baroness. “Then why do you answer? I 
mentioned nobody.” 

Josephine was confused: the doctor smiled ; 
but he said, kindly, “Indeed you look pale, and 
somewhat thinner.” 

Baroness. “Thinner? What wonder, when 
she eats nothing ?” 

St. Anbin. “ Is this true ? Do vou eat noth- 
ing ?” 

Josephine. “I eat as much as I require. I 
have often heard you say we should eat no more 
than we can relish.” 


St. Auhin. “ She is right. Perhaps we dine 
too early for you. I observe you don’t seem to 
enjoy your dinner.” 

Josej)hine. “ Enjoy — my dinner?” 

St. Auhin. “ Why not ? You are not an an- 
gel in body, though you are in mind ; and if 
you don’t enjoy your dinner, there is something 
wrong. However, perhaps Jacintha does not 
give us the dishes you like.” 

Josephine. “ No ! no ! it is not that. All dish- 
es taste like one to me,” 

St. Auhin. “What do they taste like?” 

Josephine. “ Like ? — like all t lie same, — quite 
tasteless. Don’t tease me. What docs it mat- 
ter ?” 

Baroness. “ There, doctor, there : see how fret- 
ful the poor child is getting.” 

St. Auhin. “I see, madame, and divine the 
cause. Now, Madame Eaynal, let us be serious. 
I understand you to say, that a slice of this mut- 
ton, or of that chicken, taste the same to you : 
or, to speak more correctly, have no taste ?” 

.Josephine. “ None whatever.” 

St. Auhin. “ Bile ! ! ! ! !” 

Camille, bribed by the hope of seeing Jose- 
phine every day, turned his mind seriously to- 
wards getting well ; and, as his disorder had 
been lethargy, not disease, he improved visil)ly. 
But, as his body strengthened, some of the worst 
passions in our nature attacked him. 

Fierce gusts of hate and love combined over- 
powered this man’s high sentiments of honor and 
justice, and made him clench his teeth, and vow 
never to leave Beaurepaire without Josephine. 
She had been his four years before she ever saw 
Raynal, and she should be his forev^er. Her love 
would soon revive when they should meet every 
day, and — 

Then conscience pricked him, and reminded 
him how and why Raynal had married her : for 
Laure had told him all. Should he undermine 
an absent soldier, whose whole conduct in this 
Jiad been so pure, so generous, so unselfish ? 

But this was not all. 

Strange to say, he was under a great person- 
al obligation to his quondam comrade Raynal, 
of which more by-and-by. 

Whenever this was vividly present to his mind, 
a great terror fell on him, and he would cry out 
in anguish : “ Oh that some angel would come 
to me and tear me by force from this place !” 

And the next moment passion swept over him 
like a flood, and carried away all his virtuous 
resolves. His soul Avas in deep Avaters ; great 
Avaves drove it to and fro. Perilous condition, 
which seldom ends well. 

Camille Avas a man in whom honor sat 
throned. 

In no other earthly circumstance could he 
have hesitated an instant between right and 
wrong. But such natures, proof against all oth- 
er temptations, have often fallen, and will fall, 
Avhere sin takes the angel form of her they loA'e. 
Yet, of all men, they should pray for help to 
stand : for fallen, they still retain one thing that 
divides them from mean sinners. 

Remorse, — the giant that rends the great 
hearts that mock at fear. 


WHITE LIES. 


105 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The day came in which the doctor had prom- 
ised his patient he should come down-stairs. 
First his comfortable sofa was taken down into 
the saloon for his use : then the patient himself 
came down leaning on the doctors arm, and his 
heart palpitating at the thought of the meeting. 
He came into the room : the baroness was alone. 
She greeted him kindly, and welcomed him. 
Laure came in soon after and did the same. 
But no Josephine. Camille felt sick at heart. 
At last dinner was announced. “ She will sure- 
ly join us at dinner,” thought he. He cast his 
eyes anxiously on the table : the napkins were 
laid for four only. The baroness carelessly ex- 
plained this to him as they sat down. 

“ Madame Raynal dines in her own room. I 
am sorry to say she is indisposed.” 

Camille muttered polite regrets: the rage of 
disappointment drove its fangs into him, and 
then came the hollow aching of hope deferred. 
The next day he saw her, but could not get a 
word with her alone. The baroness tortured 
him another way. She was full of Raynal, 
She loved him. She called him her son : was 
never weary of descanting on his virtues to Ca- 
mille. Not a day passed that she did not pes- 
ter Camille to make a calculation as to the prob- 
able period of his return ; and he was obliged 
to answer hei*. She related to him, before Jo- 
sephine and Laure, how this honest soldier had 
come to them like a guardian angel and saved 
the whole family. In vain he muttered that 
Laure had told him. 

“Let me have the pleasure of telling it you 
my way,” cried she, and told it diffusely. 

The next thing was, Josephine had received 
no letter from him this month, — the first month 
he had missed. In vain did Laure represent 
that he was only a few days over his time. The 
baroness became anxious, communicated her 
anxieties to Camille among the rest, and by a 
torturing interrogatory compelled him to explain 
to her before them all that ships do not always 
sail to a day, and are sometimes delayed. But 
oh ! he writhed at the man’s name ; and Laure 
observed that he never mentioned it, nor ac- 
knowledged the existence of such a person as 
Josephine’s husband, except when others com- 
pelled him. Yet they were acquainted, and 
Laure wondered that he did not sometimes de- 
tract or sneer. 

“I should,” said she, “I know I should.” 

“He is too noble,” said Josephine, “and too 
wise. If he did, I should respect him less, and 
my husband more, — if possible.” 

Certainly Camille was not the sort of nature 
that detracts ; but the reason he avoided Ray- 
nal’s name was simply that his whole battle was 
to forget such a man existed. From this dream 
he was rudely awakened every hour since he 
joined the family, and the wound his self-de- 
ceiving heart would fain have skinned over was 
torn open. But worse than this was the torture 
of being tantalized. He was in company with 
Josephine, but never alone. Even if she left 
the room for an instant, Laure accompanied her 
and returned with her. Camille at last began 
to comprehend that Josephine had decided there 
should be no private interviews between her and 
him. Thus not only the shadow of the absent 


j Raynal stood between them, but her mother and 
sister in person, and, worst of all, her own will. 

“Cold-blooded fiend,” he cried in his rage, 
“you never loved me ; you never will really love 
any one.” 

Then the thought of all her tenderness and 
goodness came to rebuke him. But, even in re- 
buking, it maddened him. “ Yes ! it is her very 
nature to love ; but, since she can make heV 
heart turn whichever way her honor bids, she 
will love her husband. She does not^now ; but 
sooner or later she will, — then she will' have chil- 
dren.” Hewrithed with anguish andfury at this 
thought, — loving ties between him and her. “ He 
has every thing on his side ; I, nothing but mem- 
ories she will efface from her heart. Will ef- 
face ? She must have effaced them, or she could 
not have married him.” He rose and went out 
into the Pleasance. He felt as if all must see 
the frightful tempest in his heart. He went into 
the Park, and wandered wildly. He was in that 
state in which men commit acts that the next 
moment they look back on with wonder as well 
as horror. 

He wandered and wandered by the side of the 
brook, and at each turn where the stagnant cur- 
rent showed a deeper pool than usual he stop- 
ped and looked, and thought, “How' calm and 
peaceful you are !” 

He sat dowm at last by the water-side, his eyes 
bent on a calm green pool. 

“ You are very calm and peaceful, and you 
could give me your peace. No more rage, — no 
more jealousy, — no more despair. It is a sordid 
death for a soldier to die wdio has seen great bat- 
tles. When I was a boy, — ah ! why can not I 
be a boy again ? — then I read of a Spartan soldier 
that w'ason a sinking ship. There was no hope, 
— no more there is for me. He drew his sword 
and fell on it ere the ship could sink. I can un- 
derstand that man’s heart. I am of his mind. 
Still we must do the best we can. Ah ! wdiat is 
this ? my pistols. The present my old comrades 
sent me while I lay betw'een life and death. Why 
did not I die then ? 

“No matter : I am glad I have got my pistols. 
How strange I should put them aw'ay into this 
coat, and put the coat on without knowing it. All 
these things are preordained. 

“ To go without a w'ord with her, — a parting 
w'ord. No ! it is best so. For I should have 
taken her with me.” 

“ Sir ! colonel !” uttered a harsh, dry voice be- 
hind him. 

Camille started. 

Absorbed and strung up to desperation as he 
was, this voice seemed unnaturally loud, and dis- 
cordant with his mood ; a sudden trumpet from 
the w'orld of small things. 

Picard the notary stood behind him. 

“ Can you tell me where Madame Raynal is ?” 

“No. At the chateau, I suppose.” 

“ She is not there : I inquired of the servant. 
She was out. You have not seen her, colonel?” 

“ I ! no.” 

“Then perhaps I had better go back to the 
chateau and wait for her : stay, you are a friend 
of the family. Colonel, suppose I were to tell 
you, and ask you to tell Madame Raynal, or bet- 
ter still to tell the baroness, or Mademoiselle 
Laure.” 

“Monsieur,” said Camille, coldly, “charge 


lOG 


WHITE LIES. 


me with no messages, for I shall not deliver 
them. I am going another way.” 

“In that case, monsieur, I wdll go to the 
chateau once more.” 

“Go!” 

Picard went, wondering at the colonel’s strange 
manner. 

Camille wondered that any one could be so mad 
as to talk to him about trifles, — to him a man 
standing on the brink of eternity. Poor soul, it 
was he w^jo was mad and unlucky. He should 
have heard what Picard had to say. Notaries 
are not embarrased, and hesitating to whom to 
speak, for nothing. 

He watched Picard’s retiring form. When 
he was out of sight then he turned round and 
resumed his thoughts as if Picard had been 
no more than a fly that had buzzed and then 
gone. 

“Yes; I should have taken her with me.” 
He sat gloomy and dogged like a dangerous 
maniac in his cell : never moved, scarce thought 
for more than half an hour : but his deadly pur- 
pose grew in him. Suddenly he started ; a lady 
was at the stile about a hundred yards distant. 
He trembled. It was Josephine. 

She came towards him slowly, her eyes bent on 
the ground in a deep reverie. She stopped about 
a stone’s throw from him, and looked at the 
river long and thoughtfLilly : then casting her 
eyes around she caught sight of Camille. He 
watclied her grimly. He saw her give a little 
start, and half turn round; but if this w'as an 
impulse to retreat, it was instantly suppressed : 
for the next moment she pursued her way. 

Camille stood gloomy and bitter, awaiting her 
in silence. He planted himself in the middle of 
the path. 

She looked him all over, and her color came 
and went. 

“Out so far as this, Camille,” she said, kind- 
ly. “ Well done, but where is your cap?” 

He put his hand to his head, and discovered 
that he was bareheaded. 

“You will catch your death of cold. ' Come, 
let us go in and get your cap.” 

She made as if she would pass him. He plant- 
ed himself right before her. 

“ No.” 

“Monsieur!” 

“You shun me.” 

“No, I do not shun you, Camille.” 

“ You shun me.” 

“I have avoided conferences that candead to 
no good ; it is my duty.” 

“You are very wise: cold-hearted people can 
be wise.” 

“Am I cold-hearted, Camille?” 

“ As marble.” 

She looked him in the face ; the water came 
into her eyes : after a while she whispered: 

“Well, Camille, I am.” 

“But, with all your wisdom and all your cold- 
ness, you have made a mistake : you have driven 
me to despair.” 

“ Heaven forbid !” 

“Your prayer comes too late ; vou have done 
it.” 

“Camille, let me go to the oratory and pray 
for you. You terrify me.” 

“ Useless. Heaven has no mercy for me. 
Take my advice, stay where you are, — don’t 


hurry, — since what remains of your life you are 
to pass with me, — do you understand that?” 

“Ah!” 

“Can you read my riddle?’’ 

“I can read your eyes, and I know you love 
me. I think you mean to kill me. Men kill 
the thing they love.” 

“ Ay ! sooner than another should have it, 
they kill it, — they kill it!” 

“ God has not made them patient like us wom- 
en, — poor Camille !” 

“ Patience dies when hope dies. Como ! Ma- 
dame Raynal, say a prayer, for you are going to 
die.” 

“ God bless you, Camille !” said the poor girl, 
putting her hands together. 

Camille hung his head, then, lashing himself 
into fury, he cried : 

“ You are my betrothed, you talk of duty, — 
but you forget your duty to me. Are you not 
my betrothed this four years? Answer me 
that.” 

“Yes, Camille.” 

“ Did I not suffer death a hundred times for 
you, to keep faith with you, you cold-blooded 
traitress with an angel’s face?” 

“Oh, Camille, why do you speak so bitterly 
to me? Have I denied your right to kill me? 
You shall never dishonor me, but you shall kill 
me, if it is your pleasure. I do not resist. Why 
then speak to me like that, — must the last words 
I hear from vour mouth be words of anger, cruel 
Camille?” 

“I was w'rong. But it is hard to kill her 1 
love in cold blood. I w’ant anger as well as de- 
spair to keep me to it ; well, turn your head away 
from me.” 

“ Oh no, Camille, let me look at you. Then 
you will be the last thing I shall see on earth.” 

He hesitated a moment: then, with a fierce 
stamp at his own weakness, he levelled a pistol 
at her. 

She put up her hands with a piteous cry : 

“ Oh, not my face, Camille ! pray do not dis- 
figure my face ! Here, — kill me here,— in my 
bosom, — my heart that loved you well, when it 
W’as no sin to love you.” 

“ I can’t shoot you. I can’t spill your blood, 
Josephine.” 

“ Poor Camille !” 

“ This wdll end all, and not disfigure your 
beauty, that has driven me mad, and cost you, 
poor wretch, your life.” 

“ Thank you, dear Camille. The water does 
not frighten me as a pistol does,— it W’ill not hurt 
me, — it will only kill me.” 

“ No, it is but a plunge, and you w'ill be at 
peace forever, — and so shall I, Come. Take 
my hand, Madame Raynal,— Madame Ravnal, 
—Madame Raynal !” 

I ‘ ‘ What, you too ?” and she drew back. “Oh, 

; Camille, my poor mother ! and Laure, who loves 
me so !” 

“ Ah! I forgot them.” 

He was silent a moment, then suddenly shriek- 
ed out : 

“Fly, Josephine, fly! escape this moment, 

I that my better angel whispers to me. Do you 
he.ar? begone, while it is time.” 

I “ I W'ill not leave you, Camille.” 
i “ I say you shall. Go to your mother and 
Laure, — go to those you love, and I can bear you 


WHITE LIES. 


107 


to love. Go to the chapel, and thank Heaven for 
your escape.” 

“I will not go without you, Cantille. I am 
afraid to leave you.” 

“You have more to fear if you stay. 

“Well, I can’t wait any longer. Stay, then, 
and learn from me how to love.” 

He levelled the pistol at himself. 

Josephine threw herself on him with a cry, and 
seized his arm. They struggled fiercely. It was 
not till after a long and mighty effort that he 
threw her off. But he did throw her off, and 
raised the pistol rapidly to take his life. 

But this time, ere the deadly weapon could 
take effect, she palsied his suicidal hand with a 
w ord : 

“ No ! I LOVE YOU !’’ 

o 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

There lie the dead corpses of those words on 
paper; but oh, my art is powerless to tell you 
how they were uttered, — those words, potent as a 
king’s that saved a life. 

They were a cry of terror ! 

They were a cry of reproach ! 

They were a cry of love unfathomable! 

The weapon shook in liis hand. He looked at 
her with growing astonishment and joy. 

She looked at him fixedly and anxiously, her 
hands clasped in supplication. 

“Not as you used to love me!” 

“ More, far more. Give me the pistol. I love 
you, dearest ! I love you !” 

At these delicious words he lost all power of 
resistance ; her soft and supple hand closed upon 
his, and gently withdrew the weapon and tHrew 
it into the water. “ Good, Camille I — now give 
me the other,” 

“ How do you know there is another?” 

“You love me, Camille, — you never meant to 
kill me and spare yourself, — come.” 

“Josephine, I am so unhappy, — do not de- 
ceive me, — pray do not take this one from me, 
unless you really love me.” 

“ I Tove you,— I adore you !” 

She leaned her head on his shoulder, but with 
her hand she sought his, and even as she uttered 
those loving words she coaxed the weapon from 
his now unresisting grasp. 

“ There, it is gone, you are saved from death, 
— saved from worse, from crime.” The danger 
over, she trembled for the first time, and sobbed 
hysterically. 

He fell at her knees, and embraced them again 
and again, and begged her forgiveness in a trans- 
port of remorse and self-re[)roach. 

She looked dowm with tender pity on him, and 
heard his cries of penitence and shame. 

“.I tliink only of what you have to suffer now.” 

“Let it come ! it will fall light on me now. 
I thought I had lost your love.” 

“No, it will not fall light on you nor on mo. 
Rise, Camille, and go home with me,” said she, 
faintly. 

“ Yes, Josephine.” 

They went slowly and in silence. Camille was 
too ashamed and penitent to speak, — too full of 
terror, too, at the abyss of crime from which he 
had been saved. The ancients feigned that a vir- 


gin could subdue a lion ; they meant by this that 
a pure gentle nature can subdue a nature fierce 
but generous. Lion-like, Camille walked by Jo- 
sephine’s side with his eyes bent on the ground, 
a picture of humility and penitence. 

“ Camille, this is the last walk you and I shall 
take together.” 

“I know it. I have forfeited all right to be 
by your side.” 

“My poor friend, will you never understand 
me ? You never stood higher in my esteem than 
at this moment. It is the avowal you have forced 
from me that parts us. The man to whom I 
have said ‘ 1 — ’ must not remain beneath my hus- 
band’s roof. Does not your sense of honor agree 
with mine?” 

“Josephine,” faltered Camille, “it does.” 

“ To-morrow you must leave the chateau.” 

“Must I, Josephine?” 

“What, you do not resist, you do not break 
my heart by complaints, by reproaches ? ?” 

“No, Josephine, — all is changed. I thought 
you unfeeling: I thought you were going to be 
hapjyy with him, — that was what maddened me,” 

“Camille, I pray daily may be hnppy, no 
matter how. But you and I are not alike, dear 
as we are to one another. Well, do not fear: I 
shall never be happy, — will that soothe you, Ca- 
mille?” 

“ Yes, Josephine, all is changed, the words you 
have spoken have driven the fiends out of my 
heart. I have nothing to do now but to obey, 
you to command, — it is your right. Since you 
love me, dispose of me. Bid me live : bid me 
die : bid me stay : bid me go, I shall never dis- 
obey the angel who loves me, — my only friend 
upon the earth.” 

A single deep sob from Josephine was all the 
answer. 

“Why did you not trust me, beloved one? 
Why did you not say to me long ago, ‘ I love 
you, but I am a wife; my husband is an honest 
soldier, absent, and fighting for France : I am 
the guardian of his honor and my own : be just, 
be generous, be self-denying ; depart and love me 
only as angels love?’ You gave me no chance 
of showing that I too am a person of honor.” 

“ I was wrong, Camille. I tliink I should have 
trusted more to you. But who would have 
thought you could really doubt my love? You 
were ill ; I could not bear you to go till you were 
well, quite well. I saw no other way to keep you 
but this, to treat you with feigned coldness. You 
saw the coldness, but not what it cost me to main- 
tain it. Yes, I was unjust and inconsiderate, for 
I had many furtive joys to sustain me ; I had 
you in my house under my care, — that tbongiit 
was always sweet, — I had a hand in every thing 
that was for your good, your comfort. I helped 
Jacintha make your soup' and your chocolate 
every day. I lined your dressing-gown : I had 
always some little thing or other to do for you. 
These kept me up : 1 forgot in my selfishness that 
you liad none of these supports, and that 1 was 
driving you to despair. I am a foolish, disingen- 
uous woman : I have been very culpable. For- 
give me !” 

“Forgive you, angel of purity and goodness? 
I am alone to blame. What right had I to doubt 
your heart? I knew' the whole story of your 
marriage, — I saw your sw’ect pale face, — but I 
was not pure enough to comprehend angelic vir- 


108 


WHITE LIES. 




tue and unselfishness. Well, I am brought to 
my senses. God has been very good to me this 
day. He has saved me from — there is but one 
thing tor me to do, — you bade me leave you to- 
morrow.” 

“ I was very cruel,” 

“No! not cruel; wise. But I will be wiser. 
I shall go to-night.” 

“To-night, Camille?” cried Josephine, turn- 
ing pale. 

“Ay ! for to-night I am strong, to morrow I 
may he weak. To-night every thing thrusts me 
on the right path. To-morrow every thing will 
draw me from it. Do not cry, beloved one, — 
you and I have a hard fight : we must be true 
allies : whenever one is weak, then is. the time 
for the other to be strong. I have been weak- 
er than you, to my shame be it said ; but this 
is my hour of strength. A light from Heaven 
shows me my path. I am full of passion, but, 
like you, I have honor. You are Raynal’s wife, 
— and — Raynal saved my life.” 

“Ah ! is it possible ? When ? where ? — may 
Heaven bless him for it!” 

“ So you see you were right, — this is no place 
for one so little master of himself as I am. I 
shall go to-night.” 

“It is so late, — too late to get a conveyance.” 

“ I need none to carry my sword, my epau- 
lettes, and my love for you. I shall go on foot.” 

Josephine raised no more objections : she walk- 
ed slower and slower. 

“Thank you, beloved one,” said Camille. 
And so the unfortunate pair came along creeping 
slowly with drooping heads towards the gate of 
the Pleasance. There their last walk in this 
Tforld must end. Many a man and woman have 
gone to the scaffold with hearts less heavy and 
more hopeful than theirs. 

“ Dry your eyes, Josephine. They are all out 
on the Pleasance.” 

“ No, I will not dry my eyes,” cried Josephine, 
almost violently. “I care for nothing now,” 

The baroness, the doctor, and Laure, were all 
in the Pleasance ; and as the pair came in every 
eye was bent on Josephine. 

She felt this, and at another time it would have 
confused her; but the cold recklessness of de- 
spondency was on her. Camille, on the other 
hand, spite of his deep misery, felt a shudder of 
misgiving. 

“They are all looking out for us,” said he to 
himself : he had a vague, unreasonable fear that 
they suspected him; thought Josephine unsafe 
in his company. He stood with downcast eyes. 

Nobody took any notice of him. 

The baroness with a trembling voice said to 
Josephine : 

“ Come with me, my poor child ;” and drew 
her apart. 

Laure followed them with her eyes bent on 
the ground. 

Tlie doctor paced up and down with a sad 
and troubled face. 

Even he took no notice of Camille. 

So at last Camille came to him, and said ; 

“Monsieur, the time is come that I must once 
more thank you for all your goodness to mo, 
and bid you farewell.” 

“What, are you going before your strength 
is re-established ?” 

“1 am out of all danger, thanks to your skill.” i 


I “ Colonel, at another time I should insist upon 
your staying a day or two longer ; but now, — 
ah ! colonel, you came to a happy house, but 
you leave a sad one. Poor Madame Raynal ! !” 

“ Monsieur!” 

“You saw the baroness draw her aside.” 


“Y— yes.” 

“ By this time she knows all.” 

“Monsieur, you torture me. In Heaven’s 
name ! what do you mean ?” 

“I forgot; you do not know the calamity 
that has fallen upon our beloved Josephine, — 
on the darling of the house.” 

Camille turned cold with apprehension. 

But he said faintly : 

“No; tell me! — for Heaven’s sake, tell me!” 

“My poor friend,” said the doctor, solemnly, 
“her husband is dead !” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Camille realized nothing at first: he lookea 
all confused in the doctor’s face, and was silent. 
Then after a while he said : 

“What? Who? Dead?” 

“Raynal has been killed in action.” 

A red flush came to Camille’s face, and his 
eyes went down to the ground at his very feet, 
nor did he once raise them while the doctor told 
him how the sad news had come. 

“Picard the notary brought us the JSIoniteiir^ 
and there was poor Raynal among the killed in 
a cavalry skirmish ; and, — oh ! my friend, would 
you believe it? — there was another Raynal in 
this same action, — a Colonel Raynal. He was 
only wounded ; but Commandant Raynal — our 
Raynal, our hero, our benefactor, our mainstay 
— must be killed. Ah ! w'e are unfortunates ! 
You share our sorrow, colonel? He was an old 
comrade of yours, — poor fellow!” 

“//e saved my life." 

Camille’s eyes never left his feet. 

“Excuse me, colonel ; I must go to my poor 
friend the baroness. She had a mother’s love 
for him who is no more, — well she might.” 

St. Aubin went away, and left Dujardin stand- 
ing there like a statue, his eyes still glued to the 
ground at his feet. 

The doctor was no sooner out of sight than 
Camille raised his eyes furtively, like a guilty per- 
son, and looked irresolutely this way and that; 
at last he went in and got his cap, then came 
out again and went back to the place where he 
had meditated suicide and murder; looked 
down at it a long while, — then looked up to 
heaven,— then fell suddenly on his knees,— and 
so remained till nightfall. 

Then he came back to the chateau. 

He said to himself : “ And it is too late to go 
away to-night.” He went softly into the saloon. 
Nobody was there but Laure and St. Aubin. At 
sight of him Laure rose and left the room. SIio 
returned in a few minutes, and rang the bell, 
and ordered some supper to be brought up for 
Colonel Dujardin. 

“You have not dined,” said she, coldly 

“ I was afraid you were gone altogether,” said 
the doctor. “ He told me he was going this 
evening, Laure. You had better stay quiet an- 
other day or two,” added he kindly. 


WHITE LIES. 


109 


“Do you think so ?” said Camille, timidly. 

The baroness drew Josephine aside, and tried 
to break to her the sad news ; but her own grief 
overcame her, and bursting into tears she bewail* 
ed the loss of her son. Josephine was greatly 
shocked. Death ! — Raynal dead,— her true, kind 
friend dead,— her benefactor dead. She clung 
to her mother’s neck, and sobbed with her. Pres- 
ently she withdrew her face and suddenly hid it 
in both her hands. 

She rose and kissed her mother once more, 
and went to her own room ; and then, though 
there was none to see her, she hid her wet but 
burning cheeks in her hands. 

Josephine confined herself for some days to her 
own room, leaving it only to go to the chapel in 
the park, where she spent hours in prayers for 
the dead and in self-humiliation. Her “ tender 
conscience” accused herself bitterly for not hav- 
ing loved this gallant spirit more than she had. 

Camille, too, was not free from self-reproach. 

He said to himself : “Did I wish him dead ? 
I hope I never formed such a thought! I don’t 
remember ever wishing him dead.” And he 
went twice a day to that place by the stream, 
and thought very solemnly what a terrible thing 
ungoverned passion is ; and repented, — not elo- 
quently, but silently, sincerely. But soon his 
impatient spirit began to torment itself again. 
AVhy did Josephine shun him now? Ah I she 
loved Raynal now that he was dead. Women 
love the thing they have lost ; so he had heard 
say. In that case the very sight of him would 
of course be odious to her ; he could understand 
that. The absolute unreasoning faith he once 
had in her had been so rudely shaken by her 
marriage with Raynal, that now he could only 
believe just so much as he saw, and he saw that 
she shunned him. 

He became moody, sad, and disconsolate ; and 
as Josephine shunned him, so he avoided all the 
others, and wandered for hours by himself, per- 
plexed and miserable. After a while he became 
conscious that he was under a sort of surveil- 
lance. Laure de Beaurepaire, who had been so 
kind to him when he was confined to his own 
room, but had taken little notice of him since he 
came down, now resumed her care of him, and 
evidently made it her business to keep up his 
heart. She used to meet him out walking in a 
mysterious way, and, in short, be always falling 
in with him and trying to cheer him up, with 
very partial success. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Edouard Riviere retarded his cure by an im- 
))atient spirit ; but lie got well at last, and his 
uncle drove him in the cabriolet to his own quar- 
ters. He had received one letter from Laure, 
one from the baroness, and two from St. Aubin ; 
and in these letters the news of the house had 
been told him, but, of course, in so vague and 
general a way that, thinking he knew all, in re- 
ality he knew nothing. 

Josephine had married Raynal. The marriage 
was sudden, but no doubt there was an attach- 
ment: he believed in sudden attachments: he 
^ad some reason to. Colonel Dujardin, an old 


acquaintance, had come back to France wound- 
ed, and the good doctor had undertaken his 
cure ; this incident appeared neither strange nor 
any way important. What affected him most 
deeply was the death of Raynal, his personal 
friend and patron. But when his tyrants, as he 
called the surgeon and his uncle, gave him leave 
to go home, all feelings were overpowered by hisk 
great joy at the prospect of seeing Laure. He 
walked over to Beaurepaire, his arm in a sling, 
his heart beating. He was coming to receive the 
reward of all he had done, and all he had at- 
tempted. “I will surprise them,” thought he. 
“ I will see her face when I come in at the door : 
oh, happy hour! this pays for all.” Pie entered 
the house without announcing himself ; he went 
softly up to the saloon ; to his great disappoint- 
ment he found no one but the baroness ; she re- 
ceived him kindly, but not with the warmth he 
expected. She was absorbed in her new grief. 
He asked timidly after her daughters. “Ma- 
dame Raynal bears up, for the sake of others. 
You will not, however, see her : she keeps her 
room. My daughter Laure is taking a walk, I 
believe.” After some polite inquiries, and sym- 
pathy with his accident, the baroness retired to 
indulge her grief, and Edouard thus liberated 
ran in search of his beloved. 

He had not far to go. 

He met her at the gate of the Pleasance, but 
not alone. She was w'alking with an officer, — 
a handsome, commanding, haughty, brilliant of- 
ficer. She was walking by his side, talking earn- 
estly to him. 

An arrow of ice shot through young Riviere ; 
and then came a feeling of death at his heart, a 
new symptom in his young life. 

The next moment Laure caught sight of him. 
She flushed all over, and uttered a little excla- 
mation, and she bounded towards him like a lit- 
tle antelope, aud put out both her hands at once. 
Ho could only give her one. 

“Ah I” she cried, with an accent of heavenly 
pity, and took his hand with both hers. 

This was like the meridian sun coming sud- 
denly on a cold place. His misgivings could 
not stand against it. 

When Josephine heard he was come, her eye 
flashed, and she said quickly : 

“I will come down to welcome him, — dear 
Edouard I” 

The sisters looked at one another. Josephine 
blushed. Laure smiled and kissed her. She 
colored higher still. 

When the time came, Josephine hesitated. 

“I am ashamed to go down.” 

“Why?” 

“ Look at my face !” 

“I see nothing wrong with it, except that it 
eclipses other people’s : there is that inconven- 
ience.” 

“Oh yes, dear Laure : look what a color it 
has, and a fortnight ago it was pale as ashes.” 

“ Never mind ; do you expect me to regret 
it?” 

“ Laure, I am a very bad woman I” 

“Are you, dear? — hook this for me.” 

“Yes,”love! But I sometimes think yon 
would forgive me, if you knew how hard I pray 
to be better. Laure, I do try so to be as unhap- 
py as I ought ; but I can’t, — I can’t 1 My heart 
seems as dead to unhappiness, as once it was to 


no 


WHITE LIES. 


iKippincss ; am I a heartless woman, after 

all r 

“Not altogether,” said Laure, dryly. “Fas- 
ten my collar, dear ; and don’t torment yourself. 
You have suft’ered much and nobly. It was 
Heaven’s will : j’ou bowed to it. It was not 
Heaven's will that you should be blighted alto- 
gether. Bow in this, too, to Heaven’s will ; take 
tilings as they come, and cease to try to recon- 
cile feelings tiiat are too opposite to live togeth- 
er.” 

“ Ah ! these are such comfortable words, 
Laure ; but mamma will see this dreadful color 
in my cheek, and what can I say to her?” 

“Ten to one it will not be observed ; and if 
it should, I will say it is the excitement of see- 
ing Edouard. Leave all to me.” 

Josephine greeted Edouard most affectionate- 
ly, drew from him his whole history, and petted 
him and sympathized with him deliciously, and 
made him the hero of the evening. Camille, 
who was not naturally of a jealous temper, bore 
this very well at first ; but at last he looked so 
bitter at her neglect of him, that Laure took him 
aside to soothe him. Edouard, missing the au- 
ditor he most valued, and seeing her in secret 
conference with the brilliant colonel, felt a re- 
turn of the jealous pangs that had seized him at 
first sight of the man : and so they played at 
cross-purposes. 

At another period of the evening the conversa- 
tion became more general, and Edouard took a 
dislike to Colonel Dujardin. A young man of 
twenty-eight nearly always looks on a boy of 
twenty-one with the air of a superior, and this 
assumption, not being an ill-natnred one, is apt 
to be so easy and so undefined that the younger 
hardly knows how to resent or to resist it. But 
Edouard was a little vain, as we know ; and the 
colonel jarred him terribly. His quick haughty 
eve jarred him. His regimentals jarred him : 
they fitted like a glove. His mustache and his 
manner jarred him ; and worst of all, his cool 
familiarity with Laure, who seemed to court him 
rather than be courted by him. He put this act 
of Laure’s to the colonel’s account, according to 
the custom of lovers, and revenged himself in a 
small way by telling Josephine in her ear, “ that 
the colonel produced on his mind the effect of a 
puppy.” 

Josephine colored up, and looked at him with 
a momentary surprise : she said quietly : “^lili- 
tary men do give themselves some airs, — but he 
is very amiable at bottom, — at least so Laure 
says, — so they all say. You must make ac- 
quaintance with him, and then he will reveal to 
you his nobler qualities.” 

“Oh, I have no particular desire,” sneered 
Edouard. Josephine said nothing, but soon 
after she quietly turned Edouard over to St. 
Aubin, while she joined Laure, and under cover 
of her had a sweet, timid chat with her falsely 
accused. 

This occupied the two so entirely, that Edou- 
ard made his adieus to the baroness, and march- 
ed off in dudgeon unobserved. 

Laure missed him first, but said nothing. 

When Josephine saw he was gone, she utter- 
ed a little exclamation, and looked at Laure. 
Laure put on a mien of haughty indifference, 
but the water was in her eyes. 

Josephine looked sorrowful. 


When tney talked over every thing together at 
night, she reproached herself. “We behaved 
ill to poor Edouard ; we neglected him.” 

“He is a little cross, ill-tempered fellow,” 
said Laure, pettishly. 

“ Oh no ! no !” 

“ And as vain as a peacock.” 

“Laure, in this house has he not some right 
to be vain ?” 

“Yes, — no. I am very angry with him. I 
won’t hear a word in his favor,” said Laure, 
pouting : then she gave his defender a kiss. 
“Yes, dear,” said Josephine, answering the kiss, 
and ignoring the words, ‘ ‘ he is a dear ; and he is 
not cross, nor so very vain, poor boy, — now don’t 
you see what it was ?” 

“No.” 

“Yes, you do, you little cunning thing: you 
are too shrewd not to see every thing.” 

“No, indeed, Josephine, — do tell me, — don’t 
keep me waiting ?” 

“ Well then, — ^jealous! !” 

“Jealous? Oh, what fun, — who of? Of 
Camille ? Ha ! ha ! Little goose !” 

“And, Laure, I almost think he would be 
jealous of any one that occupied your attention. 
I watched him.” 

“All the better, I’ll torment my lord.” 

“Heaven forbid you should be so cruel.” 

“Oh, I will not make him unhappy, but 
I’ll tease him a little : it is not in nature not 
to.” 

This fuible detected in her lover, Laure was 
very gay at the prospect of amusement it afford- 
ed her. 

And I think I have many readers who at this 
moment are awaiting unmixed enjoyment and 
hilarity from the same source. 

“Ah!” 

Edouard called the next day ; he wore a 
gloomy air. Laure met this with a particularly 
cheerful one ; on this Edouard’s face cleared up, 
and he was himself again ; agreeable as this was, 
Laure felt a little disappointed. “I am afraid 
he is not jealous, after all,” thought she. 

Josephine left her room this day and mingled 
once more with the family. The bare sight of 
her was enough for Camille at first ; but after a 
while he wanted more. He wanted to be often 
alone with her, — but several causes co-operated 
to make her shy of giving him many such oppor- 
tunities. First her natural delieacy coupled with 
her habit of self-denial, then her fear of shock- 
ing her mother, and lastly her fear of her own 
heart, and of Camille, whose power over her she 
knew. For Camille, when he did get a sweet 
word alone with her, seemed to forget every thing 
except that she was his betrothed, and that he 
had come back alive to marry her. He spoke 
to her of his love with an ardor and an urgency 
that made her thrill with happiness, and at the 
same time shrink with a certain fear and self-re- 
proach. Possessed with a feeling no stronger 
than hers, but single, he did not comprehend 
the tumult, the trouble, the daily contest in her 
heart. The wind seemed to him to be always 
changing, and hot and cold the same hour. 
Since he did not even sec that she was acting in 
hourly fear of her mother’s eye, he was little 
likely to penetrate her more hidden sentiments; 
and then he had not touched her key-note — self- 
denial. 


WHITE LIES. 


Ill 


Womon are self-denying and uncandid. Men 
ai’e self-indulgent and outspoken. 

And this is the key to a thousand double mis- 
understandings ; for good women are just as 
stupid in misunderstanding men, as good men 
are in misunderstanding women. 

To Camille Josejihine’s fluctuations, joys, 
tremors, love, terror, modesty, seemed one grand 
total caprice. The component parts of it he saw 
not ; and her caprice tortured him almost to 
madness. Too penitent to give way again to 
violent passion, he fretted. His health retro- 
graded, and his temper began to sour. The eye 
of timid love that watched him with maternal 
anxiety from under its long lashes saw this with 
dismay, — and Laure, who looked into her sister’s 
bosom, devoted herself once more to soothe 
him without compromising Josephine’s delicacy. 
Hence arose mystification No. 3. Riviere’s nat- 
ural jealousy being once awakened found con- 
stant food in the attention Laure paid Camille. 
The false position of all the parties brought 
about some singular turns. I give from their 
number one that forms a link, though a small 
one, in my narrative. 

One day Edouard found Laure alone in the 
Pleasance ; she received him with a radiant 
smile, and they had a charming talk, a talk all 
about him ; what the family owed him, etc. 

On this his late jealousy and sense of injury 
seemed a thing of three years ago, and never to 
return. 

Jacintha came with a message from the colo- 
nel, “Would it be agreeable to Mademoiselle 
Laure to walk with him at the usual hour?” 

“ Certainly,” said Laure. 

.As Jacintha was retiring Edouard called to 
her to stop a minute. 

“ May I beg ymu to reconsider that determina- 
tion ?” said he to Laure, politely^ 

“ What determination ?” 

“ To sacrifice me to this Colonel Dujardin ?” 
still politely, only a little grimly. 

Laure opened her eyes. “Are you mad?” 
inquired she, with quiet hauteur. 

“Neither mad nor a fool,” was the rejdy. 
“I love you too well to share your regard with 
any one, upon any terms ; least of all upon these, 
that there is to be a man in the world, at whose 
beck and call you are to be, and at whose orders 
you are to break off an interview with me. Per- 
dition !” 

“Edouard, what folly. Can you suspect me 
of discourtesy’, as well as of— I know not what. 
Colonel Dujardin will join us, that is all, and we 
shall take a little walk with him.” 

“ Not I ; I decline the intrusion : you are en- 
gaged with me, and I have things to say to you 
that are not fit for that puppy to hear. Choose 
therefore between me and him, and choose for- 
ever.” 

Laure colored, but smiled. “ I should be very 
sorry to choose either of you forever, but for this 
afternoon I choose you.” 

“Oh, thank y'ou, — my whole life sliall prove 
my gratitude for this preference.” 

Laure beckoned Jacintha, and sent her with 
an excuse to Captain Dujardin. She then turn- 
ed with an air of mock submission to Edouard. 
“ I am at monsieur’s orders." 

Edouard, radiant with triumph, and naturally 
good-natured, thanked her again and again for 


her condescension in setting his heart at rest. 
Hs proposed a walk, since his interference had 
lost her one. She yielded a cold assent. This 
vexed him, but he took for granted it would 
I wear off before the end of the walk. Edouard’s 
j heart bounded, but he loved her too sincerely to 
i be happy unless he could see her ha])py too : the 
■ malicious thing saw this, or perhaps knew it by 
I instinct, and by means of this good feeling of 
his she revenged herself for his tyrannv. She 
tortured him as onlv a woman can torture, and 
\ as even she can torture only a worthy man, and 
' one who loves her. In the course of that short 
walk this inexperienced girl, strong in the in- 
^ stincts and inborn arts of her sex, drove pins and 
needles, needles and pins, of all sorts and sizes, 
through her lover’s heart. 

She was every thing by turns, except kind, 
and nothing for long together. She was peevish, 
she was ostentatiously patient and submissive, 
she was inattentive to her companion, and seem- 
ingly wrapped up in contemplation of absent 
things and persons, the colonel, to wit. She 
was dogged, repulsive, and as cold as ice; and 
she never was herself a single moment. They 
returned to the gate of the Pleasance. “Well, 
mademoiselle,” said Riviere, very sadly’, “that 
interloper might as well have been with us.” 

“Of course he might, and you would have lost 
nothing by permitting mo to be courteous to a 
guest and an invalid. If you had not played the 
tyrant, and taken the matter into your own 
hands, I should have found means to soothe your 
zeal, your vanity ; but you preferred to have your 
own way. Well, you have had it.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle, you have given me a 
lesson ; you have shown me how idle it is to at- 
tempt to force a young lady’s inclinations in any- 
thing. I shall not however eftend again, for I 
am going away.” 

“Oh, are you?” She did not believe him. 

“Yes, mademoiselle. I am sorry to say I am 
promoted.” 

‘ ‘ Sorry y’ou are promoted ?” 

“I mean I was sorry this morning; because 
my new post is ten leagues from Beaurepaire ; 
but noAv I am not soriy, for, were I to stay here, 
I foresee you would soon lose whatever friendly 
feeling you have for me.” 

“I am then very changeable. I am not con- 
sidered so,” remonstrated Laure, gently. 

Riviere explained: “I am not vain, no man 
less so, nor am I jealous; but I respect myself, 
and I could never be content to share your time 
and your regard with Colonel Dujardin, or with 
a much better man.” 

“Monsieur,” began Laure, angrily. Then 
she reflected. “Monsieur Edouard,” said she, 
kindly’, “ if you were not going to leave us (only 
for a" time, I trust), I should be angry, and let 
y’ou think — any nonsense, and so vex yourself 
and affront me, monsieur; but it is no time for 
teasing you : my friend, be reasonable, — be just 
to yourself and me, — do not give way to ridicu- 
lous fancies : do not raise to a false importance 
- this poor man, who is nothing to you, nothing 
to me, upon my honor.” 

1 “Dear Mademoiselle Laure,” said Edouard, 

I “see what this person, who, after your words, I 
1 am bound to believe is indifferent to you, has 
done. He has made me arrogant and imperious 
to you. Was I ever so before ?” 


112 


WHITE LIES. 


•‘No! no! no! and I forgive you now, my 
poor friend.” 

“ He has made you cold as ice to me ?” 

“ No ! that was my own wickedness and spite- 
fulness.” 

“Wickedness, spitefulness! they are not in 
your nature. It is all this wretch’s doing.” 

Laure sighed, but she said nothing : for she 
saw that to excuse Camille would only make the 
jealous one more bitter against him. 

“Will you deign to write to me at my new 
post ? once a month? in answer to my letters?” 

“Yes, my friend. But you will ride over 
sometimes to see us.” 

“ Oh yes : but for some little time I shall not 
be able. The duties of a new post.” 

“ I understand, — well, then — in a fortnight or 
so?” 

“ Sooner, perhaps — the moment that man is out 
of the house.’’ 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Laure, dear, you have not walked with him 
at all to-day.” 

“ No: you must pet him yourself to-day. I 
hate the sight of him.” 

“ What has he done ?” 

“He has done nothing: but it has made mis- 
chief between Edouard and me, my being so at- 
tentive to him. Edouard is jealous, and I can not 
wonder. After all, what right have I to mysti- 
fy him who honors me with his affection ?” 

Then, being pressed with questions by Jose- 
phine, she related to her all that had passed be- 
tween Edouard and her, word for word. 

Josephine. “ Poor Camille !” 

Laure. “ Oh yes! poor Camille ! who has the 
power to make us all miserable, and who does it, 
and will do it, until he is happy himself.” 

“Ah! would to Heaven I could make him 
as ha])py as he deserves to be.” 

“ You could easily do that. And why not do 
it ?” 

“Laure, you know very well what sacred feel- 
ings withhold me. Laure, tell me, do you think 
it is really possible Camille does not really know 
my heart, and all the feelings that strive in it ?” 

“ My sister, these men are absurd : they be- 
lieve only what they see. I have done what I 
can for you and Camille ; but it is useless. Would 
you have him believe you love him, you must 
yourself be kind to him ; and it would be a char- 
itable action, — you would make four unhappy 
people happy, or at least put them on the road : 
noio they are off the road, and, by what I have 
seen to-day, I think, if we go on so a little long- 
er, it will be too late to try to return. Come, 
Josephine, for my sake !’’ 

“Ah ! you say this out of kindness to me, — 
and to me alone.” 

“ No, indeed, I am thinking of myself. He will 
make us all miserable for life if he is not made 
happy directly.” 

“if I thought that, I could almost consent.” 

“To be happy yourself?” 

“I will remonstrate with him for his unkind- 
ness to me, — in being miserable.” 

“ Josephine, I will go and tell him what 3’ou 
say.” 


“ Stay, Laure.” 

“No! I will not stay. There, the crime is 
mine.” 

Laure returned the next minute. 

“There,” she cried, “he is going away.” 

Josephine started. 

“ Going away ? Impossible !^’ 

“Yes ! he is in his room, packing up his things 
to go. I spied through the old place and saw 
him. He was sighing like a furnace as he strap- 
ped his portmanteau. I hate him, — but I w’as 
sorry for him. I could not help being.” 

Josephine turned pale, and lifted her hands in 
surprise and dismay. 

“Depend on it, Josephine, w'e are wrong,” 
said Laure, firmly : “ these wretches wall not 
stand our nonsense above a certain time, — and 
they are right. My sister, w-e are mismanaging : 
one gone, — the other going, — both losing faith in 
us.” 

Josephine’s color returned to her cheek, and 
then mounted high. Presently she smiled, a 
smile full of conscious power and furtive compla- 
cency. 

“ He will not go.” 

Laure was pleased, but not surprised, to hear 
her sister speak so confidently, for she knew her 
power over Camille. 

“That is right. Go to him, and say two 
words, ‘ I bid you stay.’ ” 

“Oh, Laure! no!” 

“ Poltroon ! You know he would go down on 
his knees, and stay directly,” 

“ No : I should blush all my life before you 
and him. I could not. I should let him go 
sooner, almost. Oh no ! I wall never ask a man 
to stay who washes to leave me.” 

“ Well ! but you said just now' — ” 

“Laure, dear, go to him, and say Madame 
Raynal is going to take a little w’alk : will he do 
her the honor to be her companion ? Not a word 
more, if you love me.” 

“I go! Hypocrite!” 

Josephine received Camille with a bright smile. 
She w'as in unusually good spirits, and overflow’- 
ing with kindness and innocent affection. On 
this his gloomy brow relaxed, and all his pros- 
peets brightened as by magic. Then she com- 
municated to him a number of little plans for 
next week and the w'eek after. Among the rest 
he was to go with her and Laure to Frejus. 

“Such a sweet place, Camille : I must show' 
it you. You wall come ?” 

He hesitated a single moment : a moment of 
intense anxiety to the smiling Josephine. 

“ Yes ! he would come, — it was a great temp- 
tation, — he saw so little of her.” 

“ You wall see more of me now', Camille !” 

“ Shall I see you every day, — alone, I mean ?” 

“Oh yes, if you wash it,” replied Josephine, 
in an off-hand, indifferent way. 

He seized her hand and devoured it wdth 
kisses. 

“Foolish Camille!” murmured she, looking 
down on him w'ith ineffable tenderness. “ Should 
I not be ahvays with you if I consulted my in- 
clination ? let me go.” 

“No! consult your inclination a little longer.” 

“Must I?” 

“Yes; that shall be your punishment for— 
— humph !” 


WHITE LIES. 


113 


“For what? What have I done?'’ asked 
she, with an air of great innocence. } 

“You have made me happy, me who adore 
voii.” 1 

Josephine came in from her walk with a high ! 
color and beaming eyes. 

“ Run, Lame I” 

On this concise, and to us not very clear in- 
struction, Lame slipped up the secret stair. She 
saw Camille come in and gravely unpack his lit- 
tle portmanteau, and dispose his things in the 
drawers with soldier-like neatness, and hum an 
agreeable march. 

She came and told Josephine. 

“Ah!” said Josephine, with a little sigh of 
pleasure, and a gentle triumph in her eyes. 

She had not only got her desire, but had ar- 
rived at it her way, — woman’s way, — rounda- 
bout. 

This adroit benevolence led to more than she 
bargained for. 

She and Camille were now together every day : 
and their hearts, being under restraint in public, 
melted together all the more in their stolen in- 
terviews. Much that passed between these true 
lovers may well be left to the imagination. 

At the third delicious interview Camille Du- 
jardin begged Josephine to be his wife directly. 

Have you noticed those half-tame deer that 
come up to you in a park so lovingly, with great 
tender eyes, and, being now almost within reach, 
stop short, and, with bodies fixed like statues on 
pedestals, crane out their graceful necks for sugar, 
or bread, or a chestnut, or a pocket-handker- 
chief? Do but offer to put your hand upon them, 
away they bound that moment twenty yards, and 
then stand quite still, and look at your hand and 
you, with great inquiring, suspicious, tender eyes. 

So Josephine started at Camille's audacious 
proposal. 

“Never mention such a thing to me again: 
or — or, I will not walk with you any more then 
she thrilled with pleasure at the obnoxious idea, 
“she Camille’s wife!” and colored all over, — 
with rage, Camille thought. He promised sub- 
missively not to renew the topic : no more he 
did till next day. 

The interval Josephine had spent in thinking 
of it. 

Therefore she was prepared to pnt him down 
by calm reasons. She proceeded to-do so, gently, 
but firmly. 

Lo and behold, what does he do, but meets 
her with just as many reasons, and just as calm 
ones ; and urges them gently but firmly. 

Heaven had been very kind to them : why 
should they be unkind to themselves? They 
had had a great escape : why not accept the 
happiness, as, being persons of honor, they had 
accepted the misery? with many other argu- 
ments, differing in other things, but agreeing in 
this, that they were all sober, grave, and full of 
common sense. 

Finding him not defenseless on the score of 
reason, she shifted her ground and appealed to 
his delicacy. 

On this he appealed to her love, and then calm 
reason was jostled off the field, and passion and 
sentiment battled in her place. 

In these contests, day by day renewed, Camille 
had many advantages. 

Laurc, though site did not like him, had now 
8 


declared on his side. She refused to show him 
the least attention. This threw him on Joseph- 
ine ; and when Josephine begged her to help re- 
duce Camille to reason, her answer would run 
thus : 

“Hypocrite !” with a kiss : or else she would 
say, with a half-comic petulance : “ No ! no ! I 
am on his side. Give him his own way or he 
will make us all four miserable.” 

Thus Josephine’s ally went over to the enemy. 

And then this coy young lady’s very power of 
resistance began to give way. IShe had now bat- 
tled for months against her own heart : first, 
for her mother ; then, in a far more terrible con- 
flict for Raynal, for honor and purity; and of 
late she had been battling, still against her own 
heart, for delicacy, for etiquette, things very dear 
to her, but not so great, holy, and sustaining as 
honor and charity that were her very household 
gods; and so, just when the motives of resist- 
ance were lowered, the length of the resistance 
began to wear her out. 

For nothing is so hard to her sex as a long, 
steady struggle. In matters physical, this is the 
thing the muscles of the fair can not stand. 

In matters intellectual and moral, the long 
strain it is that beats them dead. Do not look 
for a Bacona, a Newtona, a Ilandella, a Victoria 
Huga. 

Some American ladies tell us education has 
stopped the growth of these. 

No, mesdames. These are not in nature. 

They can bubble letters in ten minutes that 
you could no more deliver to order in ten days 
than a river can play like a fountain. They can 
sparkle gems of stories : they can flash little dia- 
monds of poems. The entire sex has never pro- 
duced one opera nor one epic that mankind could 
tolerate a minute : and why ? — these come by 
long, high-strung labor. But, weak as they are 
in the long run of every thing but the affections 
(and there giants), they are all overpowering 
while their gallop lasts. Fragilla shall dance 
any two of you flat on the floor before four o’clock, 
and then dance on till peep of day. 

You trundle off to your business as usual, and 
could dance again the next night, and so on 
through countless ages. 

She who danced you into nothing is in bed, a 
human jelly crowned with headache. 

■\Vhat did Josephine say to Laure one day ? 
“ I am tired of saying ‘ No ! no ! no ! no ! no !’ for 
ever and ever to him I love.” She added, com- 
bining two leading ideas in one phrase, as it is 
not given the rude logical sex to do, “I am weary 
of all this cruelty.” 

But this was not all. She was not free from 
self-reproach. • Camille’s faith in her had stood 
firm. Hers in him had not. She had wronged 
him, first by believing him false, then by man y- 
ing another. One day she asked his pardon fur 
this. He replied : 

“I have forgiven that, Josephine; but why 
not make me forget it?” 

“I wish I could.” 

“You can. Marry me: then your relations 
with that man will seem but a hideous dream. 
I shall be able to say, looking at you my wife, — 
‘ I was faithful, — I suffered something for her, — 
I came home, — she loved me still, — the proof is, 
she was my wife within three months of my re- 
turn.” 


lU 


WHITE LIES. 


When he said that to her in tlie Pleasance, if 
there had been a priest at hand — In a word Jo- 
sephine longed to show him her love, yet wished 
not to shock her mother, or offend her own sense 
of delicacy. 

Camille cared for nothing but his love. To 
sacrifice love and happiness, even for a time, to 
etiquette, seemed to him to be trifling with the 
substance of great things for the shadow of petty 
things ; and he said so : sometimes sadly, some- 
times almost bitterly. 

Here then was a beleaguered fortress attack- 
ed with one will, and defended by troops one 
third of which were hot on the side of the be- 
sieger. 

Here was a heart divided against itself, 
attacked by a single heart. 

When singleness attacks division, you know 
the result beforehand. Why tlien •should I spin 
words? I will not trace so ill-matched a con- 
test, step by step, sentence by sentence; let me 
rather hasten to relate the one peculiarity that 
arose out of this trite contest, where, under the 
names of Camille and Josephine, the two great 
sexes may be seen acting the old world-wide 
distich, 

“It’s a man's part to try. 

And a woman’s to deny,” [for a while?] 

Finding her own resolution oozing away, Jo- 
sephine caught at another person. 

She said to Camille, before Laure : — 

“ Even if I could bring myself to snatch at 
happiness in this indelicate way — scarce a.month 
after — oh !” And there ended the lady’s sen- 
tence. In the absence of a legitimate full stop, 
she put one hand before her lovely face to hide 
it, and so no more. But some two minutes 
after she delivered the rest in the form and 
with the tone of a distinct remark : “ My moth- 
er would never consent.” 

“Yes, she would, if you could be brought to 
implore her as earnestly as I implore you.” 

“ Would she, Laure?” asked Josephine, turn- 
ing quickly to her sister. 

“No, never! Our mother w’ould look wutli 
horror on such a proposal. A daughter of hers 
to marry within a twelvemonth of her widow- 
hood.” ' 

“There, you see, Camille.” 

“But, besides that, she loved Raynal.” 

“She has not forgotten him as we have, al- 
most.” 

“Ungrateful creature that I am,” sighed Jo- 
sephine. 

“ She mourns for him every day. Often I 
see her eyes suddenly fill, — that is for him. 
Josephine’s influence with mamma is very great : 
it is double mine: but if we all went on our 
knees to her, — the doctor, and all, — she would 
never consent.” 

“There, you see, Camille; and I could not 
defy my mother, — even for you.” 

Camille sighed. 

“I see every thing is against me, even my 
love: for that love is too much akin to venera- 
ion to propose to you a clandestine marriage.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! bless you for respecting as 
well as loving me, dear Camille.” 

These word.s, uttered with gentle warmth, 
were some consolation to Camille, and confirm- 
ed him, as they were intended to do, in the above 
good resolution. He smiled. 


Maladroit P' cried Laure. 

“Why maladroiti" asked Camille opening 
his eyes. 

“Let ns talk of something else,” replied 
Laure coolly. 

Camille turned red. He understood that he 
had done something very stupid, but he could not 
conceive what. 

He looked from one sister to the other al- 
ternately. Laure was smiling ironically. 

Josephine had her eyes bent demurely on a 
handkerchief she was embroidering. 

That evening Camille drew Laure aside. 

“Will you be so generous as to explain why 
you called me maladroit ?” 

“ So it was,” replied Laure, sharply. 

But as this did not make the matter quite 
clear, Camille begged a little further explana- 
tion. 

“Was it your part to make difficulties ?” 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ Was it for you to tell her a secret marriage 
would not be delicate? Do you think she will 
be behind you in delicacy ? or, that a love with- 
out respect will satisfy her? yet you must go 
and tell her you respected her too much to ask 
her to marry you secretly. In other words, 
situated as she is, you asked her not to marry 
you at all : she consented to that directly. What 
else could you expect ?” 

'‘'Maladroit! indeed,” said Camille, “but I 
would not have said it, only I thought — ” 

“ You thought nothing would induce her to 
marry secretly, so you said to yourself, I will 
assume a virtue: I will do a bit of cheap self- 
denial! decline to the sound of trumpets what 
another will be sure to deny me af I don’t, — 
ha ! ha ! — well, for your comfort, I am by no 
means so sure she might not have been brought 
to do any thing for you, except openly defy mam- 
ma: but now of course.” 

Here this young lady’s sentence ended : for 
there was a strong grammatical likeness between 
the sisters. 

Camille was so disconcerted and sad at what 
he had done, that Laure began to pity him : so 
she rallied him a little longer in spite of her 
pity ; and then all of a sudden gave him her 
liand and said she would try and repair the 
mischief. 

He began to smother her hand with kisses. 

“Oh,” said she, “I don’t deserve all that: 
I have a motiv'e of my own : your unlucky 
speech will be quoted to me a dozen times, — 
never mind.” 

“Josephine, you will not be happy if you 
don’t, no more will he.” 

Josephine sighed. 

“ You heard what he said ?” 

“Oh, that was only to please you. He 
thought nothing would tempt you to do so 
much for him.” 

“ I would do any thing for him but lose his 
respect, and make my mother unhappy.” 

“Well, love, you shall do neither:* you shall 
scarcely move in the matter : only do not oppose 
me very violently, and all will be well.” 

“ Ah ! Laure ! I know how you love me. Am 
I not fortunate to have a sister who loves me, 
and who is so shrewd? it is delightful — terrible, 
I mean — to have a little creature about one that 


115 


WHITE LIES. 


reads one like this. What shall I do? What 
shall I do?” 

“ Yes, Josephine. It is very plain ■what we 
must do : we must conceal it from our moth- 


er.' 


“We will be married ten leagues from here.” 
“You will find no priest who will consent to 
do such a wicked thing as marry us without 
mv mother’s knowledge,” 


“ Marry, and hide my marriage from her who 
bore me ?” 

“We have concealed many things from her, 
dear, not to give her pain.” 

“ Y^'es ! but nothing like this. I don’t know 
what to do.” 

“ We must do the best we can under all the 
circumstauees. Consider his w'ound is healed. 
He must go back to the army : you have both 
suffered to the limits of mortal endurance. Is 
he to go away unhappy, in any doubt of your 
affection ? are you to remain behind with mis- 
ery of self-reproach added to the desolation of 
absence, — think.” 

“ Dear Laure ! ! Find me some excuse for 
deceiving my mother.” 

“Do not say deceiving our mother, that is 
such a shocking phrase.” 

Laure then reminded Josephine of the day 
when Edouard had first told them a wise reti- 
cence w'as not the same thing as an immoral 
deceit. She reminded her, too, how after they 
had acted on his advice and always with good 
cffi.'Ct, how many anxieties and worries they had 
saved their mother, — by reticence. Josephine 
assented warmly to this. 

Was there not some reason to think they had 
saved their mother’s very life by these reticences? 
Josephine assented. “ And, Josephine, you are 
of age, you are your own mistress, you have a 
right to marry whom you please ; and, sooner 
or later, you will certainly marry Camille. I 
doubt whether even our mother could prevail on 
you to refuse him altogether. So it is but a 
question of time, and of giving our mother pain, 
or sparing her pain. She is old, our dear moth- 
er : she is ijrejudieed. Why shock her preju- 
dices? She could not be brought to understand 
the case : these things never happened in her 
day. Every thing seems to have gone by rule 
then. Let us do nothing to w'orry her for the 
short time she has to live. Let us take a course 
between pain to her and cruelty to you and 
Camille.” 

These arguments went fur to convince Jose- 
phine ; for her own heart supported them. Then 
Camille put in his word : he proposed to the sis- 
ters to let him begin by entreating the baroness; 
and, if she should be inexorable, then for Josc- 
j)hine to marry him secretly. 

“Oh no!” cried Josephine, “you shall ask 
her if you please, but if she says no (and she will 
say no), all is ended. It is much to take such a 
ste]) without her sanction. Defy her I never 
will.” 

“ Had you not better be silent, Colonel Mala- 
droit said Laure, severely. 

“Much better!’’ cried the gallant colonel, 
hastily, in mortal terror. 

Having silenced the colonel, Laure pleaded 
his cause then and there so ably, that Josephine 
went from her solid objections to untenable ones, 
— a great point gained. She urged the difficul- 
ty, the impossibility of a secret marriage. 

Camille burst into the conversation liere : he 
undertook at once to overcome these imaginary 
difficulties. 


“On, as to that,” said Laure, “you know 
the mayor marries people nowadays.”' 

“I ^yon’t be married without a priest,” said 
Josephine, sharply. 

“Nor I,” said Camille. “I know a mayor 
W'ho will do the civil forms for me, and a priest 
wdio will marry me in the sight of heaven, and 
both will keep it secret for love of me till it shall 
please Josephine to throw off this disguise.” 

“Who is the priest, Camille ?” inquired Jose- 
phine, keenly. 

“And old cu7 '^ ; he lives near Frejus ; he Avas 
my tutor, and the mayor is the mayor of Frejus, 
also an old friend of mine.” 

“But what on earth will you say to them.” 

“That is my affair : I must give them some 
reasons which compel me to keep my marriage 
secret. Oh, I shall have to tell them some fibs, 
of course. ” 

“There, look! — Camille! I Avill not hai’e 
you tell fibs, — it lowers you.” 

“ Of course it does ; but you can’t have se- 
creey without a fib or two.” 

“Fibs that will injure no one,” said Laure, 
majestically. 

From this day Camille began to act as well as 
to talk. He bought a light caleche and a power- 
ful horse, and elected factotum Dard his groom. 
Camille rode over to Frejus and told a made-up 
story to the old cure and the mayor, and these 
his old friends believed every word he said, and 
readily promised their services and strict se- 
crecy. 

He told the young ladies what he had done. 

Laure approved. Josephine shook her head ; 
and, seeing matters going as her heart desired 
and her conscience did not quite approve, she 
suddenly affected to be next to nobody in the 
business, to be resigned, passive, and disposed 
of to her surprise by Laure and Camille, with- 
out herself taking any actual part in their pro- 
ceedings. 

At last the great day arrived on which Ca- 
mille and Josephine were to be married at Fre- 
jus. 

The mayor awaited them at eleven o’clock. 
The cure at twelve. The family had bee^ pre- 
pared for this excursion by several smaller ones. 

Laure announced their intention overnight. 

“Mamma,” said she, blushing a little, “ Colo- 
nel Dujardin is good enough to take us to Frejus 
to-morrow. It is a long way, and Ave must 
breakfast early, or avc shall not be back to din- 
ner.” 

“Do so, my child. I hope you Atill haA’c a 
fine day ; and mind you take plenty of Avraps 
Avith you in case of a shoAver.” 

“lAvilltake care, mamma.” 

At seven o’clock the next morning Camille 
and the tAvo ladies took a hasty cup of coffee to- 
gether instead of breakfast, and then Dard 
brought the caleche round. 

The ladies got in, and Camille had just taken 
the reins in his hand, Avhen Jacintha screamed 
to him from the Hall : “ Wait a moment, Colo- 

nel ! w'ait a moment! The doctor! don’t go 
Avithout the doctor!” and the next moment 


116 


WHITE LIES. 


Doctor St. Aubin appeared with his cloak on 
his arm, and, saluting the ladies politely, seated 
himself quietly in the vehicle before the party 
had recovered their surprise. 

“Where shall we have the pleasure of taking 
you?” asked Camille, and gnawed his lip. 

“To Frejus,” was the reply. 

Josephine quaked. Camille was devoured 
with secret rage ; he lashed the horse and away 
they went. 

It was a silent party. The doctor seemed in a 
reverie. The others did not know what to think, 
much less to say. St. Aubin sat by Camille’s 
side ; so the latter could hold no secret com- 
munication with either lady. 

Now it was not the doctor’s habit to rise at 
this time of the morning ; yet there he was, go- 
ing with them to Frejus uninvited. 

Josephine was in agony ; had their intention 
transpired through some imprudence of Ca- 
mille ? 

Camille was terribly uneasy. He concluded 
the secret had transpired through female indis- 
cretion. Then they all tortured themselves as 
to the old man’s intention. But what seemed 
most likely was, that he was with them to pre- 
vent a clandestine marriage by his bare presence, 
witliout making a scene and shocking Josephine’s 
pride ; and, if so, was he there by his own im- 
pulse ? No, it was rather to be feared that all 
this was done by order of the baroness. There 
was a finesse about it that looked like a woman, 
and the baroness was very capable of adopting 
such a means as this to spare her own pride and 
her favorite daughter’s. The clandestine is not 
all sugar. A more miserable party never went 
along, even to a wedding. 

After waiting a long time for the doctor to de- 
clare himself, tliey turned desperate, and began 
to chatter all manner of trifles. This liad a good 
effect ; it roused St. Aubin from his reverie, and 
presently to their great surprise he gave them the 
following piece of information : 

“ I told you the other day that a nephew of 
mine was just dead. A nephew I had not seen 
for many years. Well, my friends, I received 
last night a hasty summons to his funeral.” 

“At Frejus ?” 

“ No ! at Paris ! The invitation was so press- 
ing that I was obliged to go. The letter inform- 
ed fne a diligence passed through Frejus, at 
eleven o’clock, for Paris. Fortunately you were 
going to Frejus. I packed up a few changes of 
linen, and my MS., my work on entomology, 
which at my last visit to the capital all the pub- 
lishers wore mad enough to refuse; here it is. 
Apropos^ has Jacintha put my bag into the car- 
jiage ?” 

On this a fierce foot-search, and the bag Avas 
found. Meantime Josephine leaned back in 
iier seat with a sigh of thankfulness. She was 
more intent on not being found out than on be- 
ing married. But Camille, who was more intent 
on being married than on not being found out, 
was asking himself, with fury, how on earth they 
should get rid of St. Aubin in time. 

Well, of course, under such circumstances as 
these, the coach did not come to its time, nor 
till long after ; and all the while they were wait- 
ing for it they were fiiiling their rendezvous with 
the mayor, and making their rendezvous Avith the 
curate impossible. But, aboA'C all, there Avas the 


risk of one or other of those friends coming up 
and blurting all out, taking for granted that the 
doctor must be in their confidence, or why bring 
him ? 

At last, at half past eleven o’clock, to their 
great relief, up came the coach. The doctor pre- 
pared to take his place in the interior, Avhen the 
conductor politely informed him that the dili- 
gence stopped there a quarter of an hour. 

“In that case, I Avill not abandon my friends,” 
said the doctor, affectionately. 

One of his friends gnashed his teeth at this 
mark of affection. * 

Josephine smiled sweetly. 

At last he Avas gone; but it AA’anted ten min- 
utes only to tAvelve. 

Josephine inquired, amiably, Avhether it would 
not be as well to postpone matters to another day 
— meaning forever. 

Camille replied by dragging them both very 
fast to the mayor. 

That Avorthy receiAmd them Avith profound, 
though someAvhat demure respect, and invited 
tliem to a table sumptuously serA'cd. The la- 
dies, out of politeness, Avere about to assent, but 
Camille begged permission to postpone that part 
until after the ceremony. 

At last, to their utter AA'onder, they AA’ere mar- 
ried. Then, Avith a promise to return and dine 
Avith the mayor, they Avent to the cure. Lo and 
behold, he Avas gone to visit a sick person. “ lie 
had AA'aited along time for them,” said the sei’A’- 
ant. 

Josephine Avas much disconcerted, and showed 
a disposition to cry. The servant, a good-na- 
tured girl, nosed a Avedding, and offered to run 
and bring his reverence in a minute. 

Presently there came an old, siU'ery-haired 
man, Avho addressed them all as his children, and 
seemed to mean it. He took them to the church, 
and blessed their union : and for the first lime 
Josephine felt as if Heaven consented. They 
took a gentle fareAvell of him, and Avent back to 
the mayor’s to dine ; and at this stage of the bus- 
iness, Laureand Josephine had a sudden simul- 
taneous cry, apropos of nothing that Avas then oc- 
curring. 

This refreshed them, and they gloAvcd at the 
mayor’s table like roses Avashed Avith detA'. 

But oh, hoAV glad at heart they all Avere to find 
themselves in the carriage once more going home 
to Beaurepaire. 

Laure and Josephine sat intertAvined on the 
back seat : Camille, the reins in his right hand, 
nearly turned his back on the horse, and leaned 
back OA'er to them, and talked Avith Laure, and 
looked at his Avife ineffable triumph and ten- 
derness. 

The loAmrs were in Elysium, and Laure Avas 
not a little proud of her good management in 
ending all their troubles. Their motlicr received 
them back with great, and, as they fancied, Avith 
singular affection. She Avas beginning to be anx- 
ious about them, she said. Her kindness gave 
these happy souls a pang it never gaAm them be- 
fore. 

Since the aboA'e CA’ent scarce a fortnight had 
elapsed : but such a change. Camille sunburnt 
and healthy, and full of animation and confi- 
dence ; Josephine beaming Avith suppressed hap- 
piness, and more beautiful than even Laure could 
ever remember to have seen her. For a soft halo 


^YI^TE LIES. 


117 


of love and happiness shone around her head : 
a new and indefinable attraction bloomed on her 
face. She was a wife. Her eye, that used to 
glance furtively on Camille, now dwelt demure- 
ly on him, — dwelt on him with a sort of gentle 
wonder and surprised admiration as well as af- 
fection ; and when he came or passed near her, 
a keen observer might just have seen her 
thrill. 

She kept a good deal out of her mother’s way ; 
for she felt within that her face must be too hap- 
py. She feared to shock her mother’s grief with 
her radiance. She was ashamed of feeling un- 
mixed heaven. But the flood of secret bliss she 
floated in bore all misgivings away. The pair 
were forever stealing away together for hours, 
and on these occasions Laure was to keep out 
of her mother’s sight until they should return. 
So then the new married couple could wander 
hand and hand through the thick woods of Beau- 
repaire, whose fresh green leaves were now just 
out, and hear the distant cuckoo, and sit on mossy 
banks, and pour love into one another’s eyes, 
and plan ages of happiness, and murmur their 
deep passion and their bliss almost more than 
mortal : could do all this and more, without 
shocking propriety. These sweet duets passed 
for trios ; for on their return Laure would be 
looking out for them, or would go and meet them 
at some distance, and all three would go up to- 
gether to the baroness, as from a joint excursion. 
And then, when they went up to theirbedrooms, 
Josephine would throw her arms round her sis- 
ter’s neck, and sigh : “ It is not happiness, it is 
beatitude ! !” 

JVIeantime the baroness mourned for Baynal. 
Her grief showed no decrease. Laure even fan- 
cied at times she wore a gloomy and discontent- 
ed look as well : but on reflection she attributed 
that to her own fancy, or to the contrast that had 
now sprung up in her sister’s beaming compla- 
cency. 

Laure herself, when she found herself day af- 
ter day alone for hours, was sad and thought of 
Edouard. And this feeling gained on her day 
by day. 

As last one aftennoon she locked hersel in her 
own room, and after a longcontest with her pride, 
which if not indomitable tvas next door to it, she 
sat down to write him a little letter. Now in 
this letter, in the place devoted by men to their 
after-thoughts, by women to their pretended af- 
ter-thoughts, i (?., to what they have been think- 
ing of all through the letter she dropped a care- 
less hint that all the party missed him very much, 

even the obnoxious colonel, who hy-the-hy has 
transfert'ed his services elsewhere. I have forgiven 
him that, hecausehe has said civil things about you.'' 

Laure was reading her letter over again, to 
make sure that all the principal expressions were 
indistinct, and that the composition generally ex- 
cept the poster! pt resembled a Delpliic oracle, 
when there was a hasty foot-step, and tap at her 
door. 

“ Come in and in came Jacintha, excited. 

“ He is come, IMademoiselle Laure,” cried 
she, and nodded her head like a mandarin, only 
more knowingly : then she added, “ so you may 
burn the letter.” For her quick eye had glanced 
at the table. 

“Who is come ?” inquired Laure, eagerly. 

“ Why, your one.” 


1 ‘ ‘ My one ?” asked the young lady, reddening, 

“ nty what?” 

“The little one, — Edouard, — Monsieur Ri- 
viere.” 

“Monsieur Riviere !” cried Laure, acting 
agreeable surprise. “ I am so glad. Why could 
you not say so: you use such phrases it is im- 
possible to conjecture who you mean. I will 
come to Monsieur Riviere directly: mamma will 
be so glad. 

Jacintha gone, Laure tore up the letter and 
locked up the pieces, — then tore to the glass. 

Etc. 

Edouard was so thoroughly miserable that he 
could stand it no longer : so in spite of his de- 
termination not to visit Beaurepaire while it con- 
tained a rival, he rode over to see whether he had 
not tormented himself idly : above all, to see the 
beloved face. 

Jacintha put him into the salle d manger. 

“By that you will see her alone,” said the 
knowing Jacintha. 

He sat down, hat and whip in hand, and won- 
dered how he should be received. 

In glides Laure, all sprightliness and good- 
humor, and puts out her hand to him : the which 
he kisses. 

“ How could I keep away so long ?” asked he, 
vaguely, and self astonished. 

“How indeed, and we missing you so all the 
time !” 

“ Have yoM missed me ?” was the eager inqui- 

17. 

“Oh no!” was the cheerful reply, “but all 
the rest have.” 

Presently the malicious thing gave a sudden 
start. 

“ Oh, such a piece of nows : you remember 
Colonel Dujardin, — the obnoxious colonel?” 

No answer. 

“Transferred his attentions, sir, — fancy 1” 

“Who to?” 

“ To Josephine and mamma. But such are 
the military. He only wanted to get rid of you : 
this done (through your want of spirit), he scorns 
the rich prize : so now I scorn him, — will you 
come for a w'alk ?” 

“ Oh yes !” 

“We will go and look for my deserter. I say, 
tell me now : can not I write to the commander- 
in-chief about this ? when all is done a soldier has 
no right to be a deserter, — has he? tell me, you 
arc a public man, and know every thing,— ex- 
cept — ha ! ha 1” 

“Is it not too bad to tease me to day?” 

“Yes! but let me do it. I do like it so. 
Please, I have had few amusements of late.” 

“ Yes ! you shall tease me. I feel I deserve 
no mercy.” 

Formal permission to tease being conceded, she 
went that instant on the opposite tack, and began 
to tell him how she had missed him, and how 
sorry she had been any thing should have occur- 
red to vex their kind good friend. In short, 
Edouard spent a delightful day, for Laure took 
him one way to meet Josephine, who she knew 
was coming another. When the whole party as- 
sembled, the last embers of jealousy were quench- 
ed, for Josephine was a wife now and had al- 
ready begun to tell Camille all her little innocent 
secrets ; and she had told him all about Edouard 
and Laure, and had given him his orders ; so he 


118 


WHITE LIES. 


treated Laure with pcrcat respect before Edouard ; 
but paid her no marked attention : also he was 
affable to Kiviere, who, having ceased to suspect, 
began to like him. 

In the course of the evening, the colonel also 
informed the baroness that lie expected every 
day an order to join the army of the Ehine. 

Edouard pricked his ears. 

The baroness said no more than politeness dic- 
tated. She did not press him to stay, but treat- 
ed his departure as a matter of course. Riviere 
rode home late in the evening in high spirits. 

The next day, Laure varied her late deport- 
ment : she sang snatches of melody, going about 
the house : it was for all the world like a bird 
chirping. In the middle of one chirp Jacintha 
interfered. “Hush, mademoiselle, your mam- 
ma ! she is at the bottom of the corridor.” 

“What am I thinking of?” said Laure, “to 
sing!” 

“ Oh, I dare say you know, mademoiselle,” 
replied the privileged domestic. 

A letter of good news came from St. Aubin. 
It was not for nothing that summons to his neph- 
ew’s funeral. 

The said nephew was a rich man and an odd- 
ity ; one of those who love to surprise folk, and 
hate to be foreseen and calculated upon. More- 
over, he had no children, and detected his neph- 
ews and nieces being civil and attentive to him. 
“ Waiting to cut me up !” was his generous read- 
ing of them. So with all this he turned restive, 
and made a will, and there defied as far as him 
lay, the laws of nature. 

For he set his wealth a flowing backward in- 
stead of forward. 

He handed his property up to an ancestor, in- 
stead of down to posterity. 

All this the doctor related with some humor, 
and in the calm spirit with which a genuine phi- 
losopher receives prosperity as well as adversity. 

One little regret escaped him : that all this 
wealth, since it was to come, had not come one 
little half year sooner. 

All at Beaurepaire knew what their dear old 
friend meant. 

He added that the affairs would be wound up 
by the lawyers, and it would take twelvemonths. 
He was, therefore, free ; and they might expect 
him any day after this letter. 

So here was another cause of rejoicing. 

“I am so glad,” said Josephine. “Now per- 
haps he will be able to publish his poor, dear En- 
tomology, that the booksellers were all so unkind, 
so unfeeling about.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

It was .a fair morning in June: the sky was a 
bright, deep, lovely, speckless blue : the flowers 
and bushes poured perfume and sprinkled song 
upon the balmy air. On such a day, — so calm, 
so warm, so bright, so scented, so tuneful, — to 
live and to be young is to be hapj)y. With gentle 
hand it wipes all other days out of the memory ; 
it laughs, and clouds and rain and biting wind 
seem as far oft’ and as impossible as grief and 
trouble. 

Camille and Josephine had stolen out, and 
strolled lazily up and down close under the house, 


I drinking the sweet air, fragrant with perfume and 
melody, the blue sky and love. 

Laure was in the house. She had missed 
them ; but she thought they must be near : for 
they seldom took long walks early in the day. 
Meeting Jacintha on the landing of the great 
staircase, she asked her where her sister was. 

“ Madame Raynal is gone for a walk Made- 
moiselle Laure.” 

“ Alone.” 

“ Oh no, mademoiselle. She took the col- 
onel with her. You know she always takes the 
colonel out with her now.” 

“ That will do. You can finish your work.” 

Jacintha went into Camille’s room. 

Laure, who had looked as grave as a judge 
while Jacintha was present, bubbled into laugh- 
ter. She even repeated Jacintha aloud and 
chuckled over them: “You know she always 
takes the colonel out with her now, — ha ! ha ! 
ha !” 

“ Laure !” cried a distant voice. 

Laure looked round, and saw the baroness, at 
some distance in the corridor, coming slowly to- 
wards her, with eyes bent gloomily on the ground. 
Laure composed her features into a settled gravi- 
ty, and went to meet her. 

“I wish to speak with you my daughter!” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

“Let us sit down : it is cool here.” 

Laure ran and brought a seat without a back, 
but well stuffed, and set it against the wall. The 
old lady sat down and leaned back, and looked 
at Laure in silence a good while : then she said : 

“There is room for you ; sit down, my young- 
est.” 

“Yes, dear mamma.” 

“I want to speak seriously to you.” 

“ Yes, my mother : what is it ?^’ 

“Turn a little round, and let me see your 
face.” 

“ There, mamma.” 

“Perhaps you can guess what I am going to 
say to you?” 

“No! there are so many things.” 

“ Well, I am going to put a question to you.” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

“ I invite you to explain to me the most singu- 
lar, the most unaccountable thing that ever fell 
under my notice. Will you do this for your 
mother ?” 

“ Oh mamma, of course I will do any thing to 
please you that I can : but indeed I don’t know 
what you allude to.” 

“ I am going to tell you.” 

The old lady paused. The young one felt a 
chill of vague anxiety strike across her frame. 

“ Laure,” said the old lady, speaking very gen- 
tly but firmly, and leaning in a peculiar way on 
her words, while her eye worked like an ice gim- 
let on her daugliter’s face, “ a little while ago, 
— when my poor Raynal — our benefactor — was 
alive— and I was happy— you all chilled my hap- 
piness by your gloom : the whole house seemed 
a house of mourning, — tell me now whv was 
this ?” 

“Mamma!” said Laure, after a moment’s 
hesitation, “ we could hardly be gay. Sickness 
in the house ! And if Colonel Raynal was alive, 
still he was absent, and in danger.” 

“ Oh, then it was out of regard for him wc 
were all dispirited ?” 


WHITE LIES. 


“Why not?” said Lanre faintly. She con- 
gratulated herself that her mother’s suspicion was 
confined to past events. 

“Good!” said the baroness. “In that case, 
tell me why is it that, ever since that black day 
when the news of his death reached us, the whole 
house has gone into black, and has gone out of 
mourning ?” 

“ Maiiuua,” stammered Laure, “ what do you 
mean?” 

“Even poor Camille, who was so pale and 
wan, has recovered like magic.” 

“Oh, mamma, is not that fancy?” 

“ llmnpli ! it may be, — or may not ; but the 
rest i.' certain. I have seen the change : at first 
I doubted my senses, and that is why I said noth- 
ing. [ waited to be sure, — and now I am sure. 
So tell me. Do you hesitate? Is it come to 
this, then ? has my youngest secrets from her 
mother ?” 

“ Oh, mamma, pray ! pray I do not scold me ! 
You will break my heart ! Of what do you sus- 
pect me ? Can you think I am unfeeling, un- 
grateful ? I should not be your daughter!” 

“My child,” said the baroness, “I have not 
scolded you. On the contrary, I see you attempt 
sorrow as you put on black. My Laure is too 
right-minded not to do this.” 

“ Thank you, mamma,” said Laure, humbly. 

“ But, my poor child, you do it with so little 
skill that I see a horrible gayety breakingthrough 
that thin disguise : you are not true mourners: 
you are like the mutes or the undertakers at a 
Mineral, forced grief on the surface of your faces, 
and frightful complacency below.” 

“Trala! lal ! la! la! Trala.! la.! Trala! 
la!” carolled Jacintha, in the colonel’s room 
hard by. 

The ladies looked at one another : Laure in 
great confusion. 

“ Tra la ! la^! la ! Tra lal I lal ! la ! la ! la !” 

“Jacintha!” screamed Laure, angrily. 

“ Hush ! not a word to her,” said the baron- 
ess ; and v/hen Jacintha appeared on the thresh- 
old, in answer to the summons, she sent her 
down to do her own room. 

“Why remonstrate with her 7 Servants are 
like chameleons : they take the tone of those 
they serve. Do not ciy ! I wanted your confi- 
dence not your tears, love. There, I will not 
twice in one day ask you for your heart. It 
would be to lower the mother, and give the daugh- 
ter the pain of refusing it, and the regret, sure 
to come one day, of having refused it. I will 
discover the meaning of it all myself. Kiss me, 
my youngest.” 

“ Oh, mamma ! mamma!” 

“There, tliere, dry your eyes, and go out into 
the garden tliis fine day. I shall be sure to find 
it out without tormenting you any more, my be- 
loved. Stay ! you can tell all who respect 7ne, 
it will be as well to trij at least and mourn the 
death of my dear son.” 

“Yes, Camille, all is lovely, all is happy; but 
one sad thought will come. You will leave 
me.” 

“Not to-day.” 

“How like a soldier that is !” 

“It is true,” said Camille: “the fact is, we 
are seldom sure of a day ; I mean when we are 
under arms.” 


119 

“Must you go at all? Must you risk again 
the life on which my life depends?” 

“ My dear, that letter I received from head- 
quarters two days ago, that inquiry whether my 
wound was cured. A Iiint, Josephine, — a hint 
too broad for any soldier not to take.” 

“ Camille, you are very proud,” said Jo.se- 
phine, with an accent of reproach, and a look of 
approval. 

“I am obliged to be. I am the husband of 
the proudest woman in France.’’ 

“Hush! notsoloud: there is Dard on the grass.” 

“Dard !” muttered the soldier, with a world 
of meaning. 

There was a sudden silence between the lovers. 
Camille broke it. 

“Josephine,” said he, a little peevishly, “how 
much longer are we to lower our voices, and 
turn away our eyes from each other, and be 
ashamed of our happiness ?” 

“Five months longer; is it not?” answered 
Josephine quietly. 

“Five months longer ! ! !” 

“ Is this just Camille ? Think of two months 
ago : yes, yes, two months ago, you were dying. 
You doubted my love, because it could not over- 
come my virtue and my gratitude ; yet you might 
have seen it was destroying my life. Poor Kay- 
nal, my husband, my benefactor, died ! Then I 
could do more for you, if not with delicacy, at 
least with honor ; but no ! words and looks, and 
tender offices of love, were not enough, I must 
give stronger proof. Dear Camille, I have been 
reared in a strict school : and perhaps none of 
your sex can know what it cost me to go to Fre- 
jus that day with him I love !” 

“ My own Josephine!” 

“ I made but one condition : that you would 
not rob me of my mother’s respect : to her, such 
a marriage would appear monstrous, heartless. 
You consented to be secretly happy for six months. 
One fortnight has passed, and you are discontent- 
ed again.” 

“ Oh no ! do not think so. It is every word 
true. I am an ungrateful villain !” 

“You, Camille! how dare you say so? and 
to me ! No ! I have thought, and I have discov- 
ered the reason of all this, — you are a man ! ! !” 

“ So 1 have been told : but my conduct to you, 
sweet one, has not been that of a man from first 
to last. Yet I could die for you, with a smile on 
my lips. But when I think that once I lifted 
this sacrilegious hand against your life, — oh !” 

“Do not be silly, Camille. I love you all the 
better for loving me well enough to kill me.” 

“The greater shame of me who am your hus- 
band, vet am — ” 

“Hush !” 

“ Discontented, — what a scoundrel!” 

“ I tell you, you foolish thing, you are a man : 
monseigneur is one of the lordly sex, that is ac- 
customed to have every thing quite its own way. 
My love, in a world that is full of misery, here 
are two that are condemned to be secretly happy 
a few months longer : a hard fate for one of your 
sex it seems ; but it is so much sweeter than 
the usual lot of mine, that really I cannot share 
your misery ;” and she smiled joyously. 

“ Then share my happiness, my dear wife.” 

“Hush! notsoloud!” 

“Why, Dard is gone, and we are out of doors, 
will the little birds betray us ?” 


120 


WHITE LIES. 


“The lower windows are open, and I saw Ja- 
cintha in one of the rooms.” 

“ Jacintha ? ! ! we are in awe of tlie very ser- 
vants ! ! ! Well if I must not say it loud, I will 
say it often,” and, putting his mouth to her ear, 
he poured a burning whisper of love into it : 
“ My love ! my angel ! my wife ! my wife ! my 
wife !” 

She turned her swimming eyes on him. 

“ My husband !” she whispered in return. 

Laure came out and found them almost liter- 
ally billing and cooing. She looked into their 
beaming ftices, and said pettishly : 

“You nmst not be so happy, you two !” 

“ We can’t help it.” 

“ You must and shall help it ; Josephine, our 
mother has reproached me with the joy she sees 
around her. She suspects.” 

“ She has spoken to you ? Your eyes are red. 
She has found me out ?” 

“ No ! not so bad as that. Come away from 
the house a little way, and I’ll tell you.” 

“After all,” said Laure, as soon as they got 
into the park, “ why conceal the truth from her 
any longer? She will forgive us.” 

“Take care, Laure,” said Camille, slyly, “I 
have just offended her by a word of the kind.” 

“ How can I tell my mother that within six 
weeks of my husband’s death — ?” 

“Don’t say your husband,” put in Camille, 
wincing; “ the priest never confirmed that un- 
ion : words spoken before a magistrate do not 
make a marriage in the sight of Heaven.” 

Josephine cut him short. 

“ Amongst honorable men and women all 
oaths are alike sacred : and Heaven’s eye is in a 
magistrate’s room as in a church. A daughter 
of the house of Beaurepaire gave her hand to 
Captain Raynal, and called herself his wife. 
Therefore she was his wife, and is his widow. She 
owes him every thing ; the house you are all liv- 
ing in, among the rest. She ought to be proud 
of her brief connection with that pure, heroic 
spirit, and, when she is so little noble as to dis- 
own him, then say that gratitude and justice 
have no longer a place among mankind !” 

“ Come into the chapel,” said Camille, with a 
voice that showed he was hurt. 

They entered the chapel, and there they saw 
something that thoroughly surprised them. A 
marble monument to the memory of Raynal. It 
leaned at present against the wall below the 
place pi-epared to receive it. The inscription, 
short, but emphatic, and full of feeling, told of 
the battles he had fought in, including the last 
fatal skirmish, and his marriage with the heiress 
of Beaurepaire ; and, in a few soldier-like words, 
the uprightness, simplicity, and generosity of his 
character. 

The girls were so touched by this unexpected 
trait in Camille, that they threw their arms 
round his neck by one impulse. 

“Am I wrong to be proud of him?” said 
Josephine, triumphantly. “ You conquered your- 
self here, my brave soldier !” 

“Do not praise me,” said Camille, looking 
down confused. “One tries to be good ; but it 
is very hard, — to some of us, — not to you, Jose- 
fdiine ; and, after all, it is only the truth that we 
have written on that stone. Poor Raynal I he 
was my old comrade ; he saved me from death, 
and not a soldier’s death, — drowning; and he was 


a better man than I am, or ever shall be. Now he 
is dead, I can say these things. If 1 had said 
them when he was alive, it would have been more 
to my credit.” 

Further comment was cut short by two work- 
men, who came in with a pail of liquid cement, 
to place and fix the slab. 

Camille and the ladies went back towards the 
house ; and then, as praise seemed to make Ca- 
mille uncomfortable, they naturally fell upon the 
other topic. 

Laure told them all that had passed between 
the baroness and her. When Laure came to the 
actual details of that conversation, to the words, 
and looks, and tones, Josephine’s uneasiness rose 
to an overpowering height. 

“ We have underrated mamma’s shrewdness. 
What shall I do?” 

“ Better tell her than let her find out,” said 
Laure. “ We must tell her some day.” 

At last, after a long and agitated discussion, 
Josephine consented ; but Laure must be the 
one to tell all to the baroness. 

“ So, then, you at least will make your peace 
with mamma,” argued Josephine, “and let us 
go in and do this before our courage fails ; be- 
sides, it is going to rain, and it has turned cold. 
Where have all these clouds come from? An 
hour ago there was not one in the sky !” 

They went, with hesitating steps and guilty 
looks, to the saloon. Their mother was not there. 
A reprieve. 

Laure had an idea. “ No, I will not tell her 
here. I will ask her to go out with me ; and 
then I will take her to the chapel, and show her 
the monument, and then she will be so pleased 
with poor Camille : after that, when she is soft- 
ened, I Avill begin by telling her alh the misery 
you have both gone through ; and, when she 
pities you, then I will show her it w'as all my 
fault your misery ended in a secret marriage.” 

“ Ah, Laure ! you are my guardian angel. I 
feel cold at what is coming : it is very good of 
you to make the plunge for us. After all, to- 
morrow must come ! To-morrow we shall be no 
longer playing a part, and hiding our hearts from 
our dear mother. It will seem like a return to 
nature to be once more all open to her, as we 
used to be till this last twelvemonth.” 

Laure assented warmly to this, and the con- 
federates sat there waiting for the baroness. At 
last, as she did not come, Laure rose to go to her. 
“ When the mind is made up, it is no use being 
cowardly and putting off,” said she, firmly. For 
all that, her cheek had but little color left in it 
when she left her chair with this resolve. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Now it happened as Laure went down the 
long salon ip carry out their united resolve, that 
Jacintha looked in ; and, after a hasty glance to 
sec who was present, she waited till Laure came 
up to her, and then she drew a letter from under 
her apron and gave it her. 

^ “A letter for my mistress,” said she, with an 
air of mystery. 

“ Why not take it to her, then ?” 

“I thought you might like to see it first, ma- 
demoiselle,” said she, with a quiet meaning. 


WHITE LIES. 


121 


“ A letter for our mother, Josephine, that is 
all.” 

“Is it from the dear doctor?” asked Joseph- 
ine. 

“La, no, mademoiselle,” said Jacintha : 
“don’t you know the doctor is come home? 
Why, he has been in the house near an hour. 
He is with my lady.” 

The doctor entered the room at this very mo- 
ment. Laure threw down the letter, and she 
and the whole party were instantly occupied in 
greeting him. 

When they had all shaken hands with him, 
and welcoined him again and again, Laure re- 
membered the letter, and took it up to carry to 
the baroness. Looking at it then more closely, 
she uttered an exclamation and beckoned the 
doctor hastily. 

He came to her ; and she put the letter into 
his hand. 

He put up his glasses and eyed it. 

“Yes?” whispered he, “it is from Mm.'' 

Josephine and Camille saw something was 
going on : they joined the other two with curi- 
osity in their faces. 

Laure put her hand on a small table near her 
and leaned a moment. She turned half sick at 
a letter coming from the dead. 

“My love! iny Laure!” cried Josephine, 
with great concern, “ what is the matter ?” 

“ My poor friends,” said the doctor, solemnly, 
“ this is one of those fearful things that you have 
not seen in your short lives', but it has been more 
than once my lot to witness it. The ships that 
carry letters from distant countries vary greatly 
in speed and are subject to detaining accidents. 
Yes ! this is the third time I have seen a letter 
come written by a hand known to be cold. The 
baroness is a little excited to-day, I don’t know 
from what cause. With your approbation, Ma- 
dame Raynal, I will read this letter before I let 
her see it.” 

“ Read it, doctor.” 

‘ ‘ Shall 1 read it out ?” 

“ Certainly. There may be some wish ex- 
pressed in it : and the last wishes of a hero arc 
sacred.” 

Camille, from delicacy, retired to some little 
distance, and the doctor read the letter in a low 
and solemn voice. 

“ dear mother^ — 7 hope all are well at Beait- 
repaire^ a.*? I am^ or I hope soon to he. I received 
a wound in our last skirmish: not a very severe 
one ; but it put an end to my writing for some time." 

“ Poor fellow ! it was his death-wound. Why, 
when was this written ? — why ?” and the doctor 
paused and seemed stupefied : “wdiy, my deal's, 
has my memory gone, or — ” and again he look- 
ed eagerly at the letter ; “ for God’s sake, what was 
the date of the battle in which he was killed ? 
for this letter is dated the 15th of May. Is it a 
dream ? — no : — this was written since his 
death.” 

“No, doctor,” said Camille, hastily, “you de- 
ceive yourself.” 

“Why, what wa^ the date of the Moniteur, 
then ?” asked St. Aubin, in great agitation. 

“ Considerably later than this,” said Camille. 

“ Well, but suppose it was, — you don’t see, — 
the journal I the journal !” 


“ My mother has it locked up. I’ll run.” 

“No, Laure, no one but me. Josephine, do 
not give way to hopes that may be delusive. 
But I tell you plainly, there arc hopes. I must 
see that journal directly. Stay where you are. 

I will go to the baroness.” He hurried out. 

He was scarcely gone, when a cry of horror 
filled the room, a cry as of madness falling like 
a thunderbolt on a human mind. 

It was Josephine, who, up to this, had not ut- 
tered one word. She stood, w'hite as a corpse, in 
the middle of the room, and wrung her hands. 

“What have I done? What shall I do ? It 
was the third of May ! I see it before me in let- 
ters of fire, — the third of May ! the third of 
May ! — and he writes the fifteenth.” 

“No! no!” cried Camille, wildly. “ It was 
long, long after the third.” 

“ It was the third op May !” repeated Jo- 
sephine, in a hoarse voice, that none would have 
known for hers. 

Camille ran to her with words of comfort and 
hope ; he did not share her fears. He remem- 
bered about Avhen the Moniteur came, though not 
the very day. He threw his arm lovingly round 
her, as if to protect her against these shadowy 
terrors. Her dilating eyes seemed fixed on 
something distant in space or time, — at some 
horrible thing coming slowly towards her. She 
did not see Camille approach her, but the mo- 
ment she felt him she turned upon him swiftly. 

“ Do you love me, — you ?” still in the hoarse 
voice that had so little in it of Josephine. 

“ Oh, Josephine !” 

“ Does one grain of respect or virtue mingle 
in your love for me ?” 

“What words are these, my wife ?” 

“Then leave Raynal’s house upon the instant. 
.You wonder I can be so cruel? I wmnder, too ; 
and that I can see my duty so clear in one short 
moment! But, Camille, I have lived twenty 
years since that letter came. Oh ! my^ brain has 
whirled through a thousand agonies. But I have 
come back a thousand times to the same thing, 
— you and I must see each other’s face no more.” 

Camille threw himself on his knees, and im- 
plored her to recall her words. “Take care,” 
she screamed, wildly'-, “I am on the verge of 
madness ; is it for you to thrust me over the prec- 
ipice ? Come now, if you are a man of honor, 
if you have a spark of gratitude towards the poor 
w'oman who has given you all except her fail- 
name, — that she will take to the grave in spite 
of you all, — promise that you will leave Raynal’s 
house this minute, if he is alive, and let me die 
in honor, as I have lived.” 

“ No, no !” cried Camille, terror-stricken ; “ it 
can not be ! Heaven is merciful ; and Heaven 
sees how happy we are ! Be calm ; these are idle 
fears, — be calm, I say ! Well, then, my poor 
saint, if it is so, I will obey you. I will stay, I 
will go, I will die, I will live. Whatever you 
bid me do I will do, my poor Josephine !” 

“ Swear this to me by the thing you hold most 
sacred !” 

“ I swear by my love for you.” 

Agitated voices w'ere heard at the door, and 
the baroness* burst in, followed by the doctor, 
who was trying in vain to put some bounds to 
her emotion and her hopes. 

“ Oh, my children ! — my children !” cried she, 
trembling violently. “Here, Laure, my hands 


122 


WHITE LIES. 


shake so ; take this key, open the cabinet, there 
is the Moniteur. What is the date ?” 

“ The 20th of May.” 

“There !” cried Camille. “ I told you.” 

The baroness uttered a feeble moan. Her 
hopes died as suddenly as they had been born, 
and she sank drooping into a chair, with a bitter 
sigh. 

Camille stole a joyful look at Josephine. She 
was in the same attitude, looking straight before 
her as at a coming horror. Presently Laure ut- 
tered a faint cry: “The battle was before !" 

“ To be sure,” cried the doctor : “ you forget, 
it is not the date of the paper, but of the battle 
it records. For God’s sake, when was the bat- 
tle?” 

“The THIRD OF May,” said Josephine, in a 
voice that seemed to come from the tomb. 

Laure’s hands that held the journal fell like 
a dead weight upon her knees. She whispered : 

“It was the third of May.” 

“ Ah !” cried the baroness, starting up. “ He 
may yet be alive ! He must be alive ! Heaven 
is merciful! Heaven would not take my son 
from me. A poor old woman who has not long 
to live. There was a letter ! Where is the let- 
ter?” 

“ Yes, the letter ! Where is it ?” said the doc- 
tor. “ I had it : it has dropped from my old fin- 
gers. I thought of nothing but the journal.” 

A short examination of the room showed the 
letter lying crumpled up near the door. Camille 
gave it to the baroness. 

“Read! — read! — no, not you, old friend! 
You and I are old: our hands shake, and our 
eyes are troubled : this young gentleman will 
read it to us : his eyes are not dim and troubled. 
Oh, something tells me that when I hear this let- 
ter, I shall find out whether my son lives ! Why 
do you not read it to me, Camille?” cried she, 
almost fiercely. 

Camille, thus pressed, obeyed mechanically, 
and began to read Raynal’s letter aloud, scarce 
knowing what he did, but urged and driven by 
the baroness. 

“ Mij dear mother, — I hope all are well at Beau- 
repaire, as I am. I received a wound in our last 
skirmish, not a very severe one ; but it stopped my 
writing for some time.'' 

“ Go on, dear Camille ! go on.” 

“The page ends there, madame.” 

The paper was thin, and Camille, whose hand 
trembled, had some difficulty in detaching the 
leaves from one another. He succeeded, how- 
ever, at last, and went on reading and writhing. 

By the way. you must address your next letter 
to me as Colonel Ray nal. I loas promoted just be- 
fore this last affair, but had not time to tell you." 

“There, there!” cried the baroness. “He 
tvas Colonel Kavnal, and Colonel Kavnal tvas not 
killed.” 

“Pray don’t interrupt.” 

“No, my friend: go on, Camille, — why do 
you hesitate? what is the matter ?*do for pity’s 
sake go on, sir.” 

^ Camille cast a look of agony around, and put 
his hand to his brow, on which large drops of cold 
perspiration, like a death dew, were gathering ; 


but, driven to the stake on all sides, he gasped 
on, rather than read : for his eye had gone down 
the page. 

“A namesake of mine, — Commandant Raynal-^" 

“Ah!” 

“ Has not been — so fortunate ; he — ” 

“ Go on ! go on !” 

The wretched man could now scarcely utter 
Raynal’s words: they came from him in a chok- 
ing groan. 

“LTe was killed,— poor fellow I — while heading 
a gallant charge upon the enemy's flank." 

The letter was ground convulsively ; then it 
fell, all crumpled, on the floor. 

“Bless you, Camille!” cried the baroness, — 
“bless you! bless you! I have a son still! 
Give me the precious letter!” 

She stooped eagerly, took it up, and kissed it 
again and again. 

“Your husband is alive ! my son is alive ! our 
benefactor is alive !” 

Then she fell on her knees, and thanked Heav- 
en aloud before them all. Then she rose and 
went hastily out, and her voice was heard cry- 
ing very loud : 

“Jacintha! Jacintha!” 

The doctor followed, fearful for the cfTects of 
this violent joy on so aged a person. The three 
remained behind, panting and pale like those to 
whom dead Lazarus burst the tomb, and came 
forth in a moment, — at a word. Then Camille 
half kneeled, half fell at Josephine’s feet, and, in 
a voice choked with sobs, bade her dispose of 
him. 

She turned her head away. 

“ Do not speak to me, do not look at me : if 
we look at one another, we are lost. Go! die 
at your post, and I at mine!” 

He bowed his head, and kissed her dress, then 
he rose calm as despair and white as death, and, 
his knees knocking under him, he tottered away 
like a corpse set moving. 

The baroness came back, triumphant and gay. 

“I have sent her to bid them ring the bells in 
the village ; the poor shall be feasted, — all shall 
share our joy, — my son was dead, and lives, 
joy! joy! joy !’’ 

“Mother!” shrieked Josephine. 

“Madwoman that I am, 1 am too boisterous! 
help me, Laure ! she is going to faint, — her lips 
are white !” 

They brought a chair. They forced Josephine 
into it. She was not the least faint: yet her 
body obeyed their hands just like a dead body. 
The baroness burst into tears, tears streamed 
from Laure’s eyes. Josephine’s were dry and 
stony, and fixed on coming horror. The baron- 
ess reproached herself. 

“Thoughtless old woman. It was too sudden : 
it is too much for my dear child. I, too, am faint 
now;” and she kneeled, andjaid her aged head 
on her daughter’s bosom, saying feebly through 
her tears, “ too much joy, — too much joy.” 

Josephine took no notice of her. She sat like 
one turned to stone, looking far away over her 


WHITE LIES. 


123 


mother s head with rigid eyes fixed on the air j 
and on coming horrors. 

Laure felt her arm seized. It was St. Aubin. ' 
lie, too, was pale now, though not before. He 
spoke in a terrible whisper to Laure, his eye fixed 
on the woman of stone that sat there. 

“Is THIS JOY?” 

o 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Josephine Ratnal is no stranger to you : 
most of you know more about her than about any 
other woman of your acquaintance. Bring your 
knowledge to my aid. Imagine, as the weary 
hours, and days, and weeks roll over her head, 
what this loving woman feels for her lover whom 
she has dismissed : what this grateful woman 
feels for the benefactor she has unAvittingly 
wronged, — but will never wrong with her eyes 
open. What this woman, pure as snow, and 
proud as fire, feels at the appearance of frailty 
into which circumstances have betrayed her. 

Put down the book a moment : shut your eyes : 
and imagine this strange form of human suffer- 
ing. 

Doctor St. Aubin received one day a note from 
a publishing bookseller, to inquire whether he 
still thought of giving the world his valuable 
work on insects. The doctor was amazed. 

“ My valuable work ! Why, Laure, they all 
refused it, and this one in particular recoiled from 
me as if iny insects could sting on paper.” 

The publisher went on to say : 

“ Studies of this class are gaining ground^and I 
think we might venture before the jmblic.'' 

This led to a correspondence, in which the 
convert to insects explained that the work must 
be published at the author’s e <pense, the pub- 
lisher contenting himself v\ ith ilic profits. 

The author, thirsting for the public, consented. 

Then the publisher wrote again to say that the 
work must be spiced. A little politics must be 
flung in : nothing goes down else. 

The author answered in some heat that he 
would not dilute things everlasting with the fleet- 
ing topics of the day, nor defile science with pol- 
itics. On this his Mentor smoothed him down, 
despising him secretly for not seeing that a book 
is a matter of trade and nothing else. Brief, St. 
Aubin Avent to Paris to hatch his Phoenix. 

He had not been there a Aveek, Avhen a small 
deputation called on him, and informed him he 
had been elected honorary member of a certain 
scientific society. 

“Hallo!” thought he, and boAved as gentle- 
men used and as dancing-masters use. Fair 
speeches on both sides ! Exit deputation. 

Next, invitations poured in. He accepted 
them. lie shone at parties. Compliments A\’ere 
gracefully insinuated to his face. Science seem- 
ed really to be coming into fashion. 

But Avhen a loA'ely young Avoman or tAvo began 
Avith the pliancy of their sex to find they had for 
many years secretly taken a Avarm interest in but- 
terflies, — out of their OAvn species, — the natural- 
ist smelt a rat. 

“I see,” said he, “entomology, a form of 
idiocy in a poor man, is a graceful deviation of 
the intellect in a rich one.” 


Philosopher Avithout bile, he saAv through this, 
and let it amuse, not shock him. His species 
had another trait in reserve for him. 

He took a Avorld of trouble to find out the cir- 
cumstances of his iiepheAv’s nephcAvs and nieces : 
then he made arrangements for distributing a 
large part of his legacy among them. His inten- 
tions and the proportions of his generosity trans- 
pired. 

Silent till noAv, they all fell to and abused him : 
each looking only at the amount of his individ- 
ual share, not at the sum total the doctor Avas 
giving away to an ungrateful lot. 

The donor Avas greatly amused, and noted doAvn 
the incident and some of the remarks in his com- 
monplace-book, under this head, “Man.” 

Paris is full of seductions, some of them inno- 
cent. It netted the doctor, and held him fast. 

He Avas disturbed from time to time by ill ac- 
counts of Josephine’s health ; and, if he had 
thought Avith the baroness that her illness aa’us 
of the body, he would have come to her side at 
once : as it Avas, he hoped more from time than 
from drugs in her case ; and, as he had a A'ague 
suspicion he Avas not desirous the baroness shoidd 
share, he Avas rather disposed to keep out of her 
way. 

lie Avrote, therefore, briefly and reservedly, 
assuring Madame de Beaurepaire that Madame 
Raynal had no organic disease, and Avould out- 
groAV these fluctuations of health : he prescribed 
some mild tonics. 

The despair of Josephine’s mind Avas so ter- 
rible that Laure Avould gladly haA'e compounded 
for a bodily illness: she feared for her sister’s 
reason : and, though it added another anxiety, 
she Avas scarcely sorry Avhen she discovered that 
symptoms which looked like bile attacked her 
frequently. 

“I shall tell our mother of this.” 

“I Avould not tell her a Avord about it,” ob- 
served Jacintha quietly. She happened to be 
present. 

“Why not? she has already noticed how ill 
my sister is.” 

Mademoiselle Laure, take my advice, and 
don’t go and AA-orry her: it can do no good.” 

Jacintha spoke so firmly, and seemed so con- 
fident, that Laure drcAv her aside. 

“Jacintha, I am so anxious about her: and 
perhaps our mother may know some remedy; 
she is more experienced than Ave are.” 

“There is no remedy Avanted. You are mak- 
ing a fuss about nothing, mademoiselle.” 

“ Hoav do you know that, Jacintha ? Did you 
ever see any one suffer as she does ?” 

“Plenty !” 

“ Oh, Jacintha ! be frank Avith me : did they 
die?” 

“No.” 

“None of them?” ^ 

“Notone.” 

“ Then there is no danger, you think?” 

“Not an atom.” 

“Bless you for saying so, good Jacintha! 
And hoAV confidently you speak : your tone and 
manner re-assure me. Yet, after all, my poor 
Jacintha, you are not a doctor!” 

“No, mademoiselle, but Avomen in my way 
of life see a many things, and hear a many things, 
that don’t come to a young lady’s knoAvledge like 
you.” 


124 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Oh, do they ?” 

The above symptom disappeared : but a more 
serious cause of fear remained in Josephine’s utter 
listlessness and frightful apathy : she seemed a 
creature descending inch by inch into the tomb. 
She shunned all company : even Laure’s at times. 
She seldom spoke. One day she said, “Not 
dead yet!” half to herself, and in such a tone, 
that Laure’s heart died within her. 

The house fell into silence and gloom. 

Jacintha, naturally so bustling and cheerful, 
became silent, thoughtful, and moody. She had 
never been so affected by their former troubles. 
Laure caught her eye at times, dwelling with a 
singular expression of pity and interest on Jose- 
phine. “Good creature!” thought Laure, she 
sees my sister is unhappy, and that makes her 
more attentive and devoted to her than ever. 

One day these three were together in Jose- 
pliine’s room. Josephine was mechanically 
combing her long hair, when, all of a sudden, 
she stretched out her hand and cried hastily : 

“ Laure !” 

Laure ran to her, and coming behind her saw 
in the glass that her lips were colorless. She 
screamed to .Jacintha, and between them they 
supported Josephine to the bed. She hal hard- 
ly touched it when she fainted dead away. 

“Mamma! mamma!” cried Laure, in her 
terror. 

“Hush 1 ” cried Jacintha, “hold your tongue; 
it is only a faint. Help me loosen her, don’t 
make any noise whatever.” 

They loosened her stays and applied the usual 
remedies, but it was some time before she came 
to. At last the color came back to her lips, then 
to her cheek, and the light to her eye. She 
smiled feebly on Jacintha and Laure. 

“ I have been insensible, have I not ?” 

“Yes, love, and frightened us — a little — not 
much — oh dear! oh dear!” 

“Don’t be alarmed, sweet one, — I am bet- 
ter. ” 

“Now may I go and tell mamma?” asked 
Laure. 

“No! mademoiselle,” was Jacintha’s reply. 
“What makes you so bent on tormenting my 
mistress?” 

“ But, Jacintha, I am frightened : it is not as 
if my sister was subject to fainting-fits. I never 
saw her faint but once before.” 

“ And I will never do it again, since it fright- 
ens you.” Then Josephine said to her sister, in 
a low voice and in the Italian language: “I 
hoped it was Death, my sister; but he comes 
not to the wretched.” 

“If you hoped that!” replied Laure, in the 
same language, “you do not love your poor 
sister who so loves you.” 

While the Italian was going on Jacintha’s 
dark eyes glanced suspiciously on each speaker 
in turn. But her suspicions were all wide of the 
mark. 

“ Now may I go and tell mamma ?” 

“No, mademoiselle! Madame Raynal, do 
take my side, and forbid her.” 

“Why, what is it to you?” said Laure, sharp- 

b’- 

“If it was not something to me, should I 
thwart my dear young lady?” 

“No. And yon shall have 3'our own way, if 
you will but condescend to give me a reason.” 


This to some of us might appear reasonable, 
but not to Jacintha : it even hurt her feelings. 

“Mademoiselle,” she said, “when you were 
little and used to ask me for any thing, did I 
ever s.ay to you,- ‘Give me a reason first?’ ” 

“There! she is right. We should not make 
terms with tried friends. Come, we will pay 
her devotion this compliment. It is such a small 
favor.” 

“And I shall take it as a great one.” 

“Enough ; we will not tell our mother.” 

Laure acquiesced, but with a sigh. 

“I did so hope that all our concealments 
from her w'ere ended: but now w^e have begun 
concealing, something keeps always happening 
to make us go on.” 

“Well, one comfort. Doctor St. Aubin will 
be here next month, and then I shall tell him ; 
there is no objection to that, I suppose.” 

“What day does the doctor come?” w'as all 
Jacintha’s answer. 

“We don’t know yet: but he will wnite 
first.” 

An improvement took place in Josephine’s 
health about this time. A slight tint came to 
her cheek, and faint and fitful glows to her 
heart. The powders of life in her received a 
support: she was conscious of it. She said one 
day to Laure : 

“ My sister, I no longer wish to die : is it not 
strange ? Something seems to bid me live. Is 
Heaven strengthening me to suffer more?” 

“No, my sister,” said Laure ; “ time is blunt- 
ing your anguish ! And it is for my sake you 
wish to live, bless you ! — for mine, who would 
follow you to the tomb, my best beloved of all 
the world ! ” 

“ Yes, Laure, you love your poor sister too 
w-ell. I fear you love me better than 3'ou do 
Edouard.” 

“He has no trouble! Yes, my poor patient 
saint, my life seems to me too small a thing to 
give you.” 

“It is very consoling to be loved so,” sobbed 
Josephine. “Oh that none other but you had 
ever loved me ! I have caused the despair of 
one who loved me well, too. Oh, my sister! — 
my sister !” 

This was the only time she had ever alluded 
for months past to Camille. She guarded the 
avenues of her heart, poor soul ! She fought for 
her purity as sternh', as keenl}', as heroes ever 
fought for gloiy, or martyrs for truth. 

Josephine’s appearance improved still more. 
Her hollow cheeks recovered their plump smooth- 
ness, and her beauty its bloom, and her person 
grew more noble, and statue-like than ever, and 
within she felt a sense of indomitable vitalitv. 
Her appetite had for some months been excess- 
ively feeble and uncertain, and her food taste- 
less ; but of late, by what she conceived to be a 
reaction such as is common after j'outh has shaken 
off a long sickness, her appetite had been not 
only healthy but eager. 

The baroness observed this, and it relieved 
her of a large portion of her anxiety. One day 
at dinner her maternal heart w-as so pleased 
with Josej)hine’s ])crformance, that she took it 
as a ])ersonal favor. 

“Well done, my daughter! that gives your 


WHITE LIES. 


125 


mother pleasure to see you eat again. Soup 
and bouillon: and now twice you have been to 
Laure tor some of that which does you so 
much credit, Jacintha.” 

Josephine colored high at this compliment. 

“ It is true,” said she, “ I eat like a pig and, 
with a furtive glance at the said pate, she laid 
down her knife and fork, and ate no more of 
any thing. 

“The doctor will be angry with me,” said 
the baroness. “I have tormented him away 
from Paris, and when he comes he will find her 
as well as ever.” 

“Madame the baroness,” said Jacintha, has- 
tily, “when does the doctor come, if I may 
make so bold, that I may get his room ready ?” 

“Well thought of, Jacintha. He comes the 
day after to-morrow in the afternoon.” 

At night when the young ladies went up to 
bed, what did they find but a little cloth laid 
on a little table in Josephine’s room, and the re- 
mains of the pate she had liked. Laure burst 
out laughing : 

“Look at that dear duck of a goose, Jacin- 
tha! Our mother’s flattery sank deep ; she thinks 
we can eat her pates at all hours of the day and 
night. Shall I send it away ?” 

“No!” said Josephine; “that would hurt 
her culinary pride, and perhaps her affection ; 
only cover it up, dear ; for just now I am not in 
the humor : it rather turns my stomach.” 

It was covered up. The sisters retired to rest. 
In the middle of the night, pitch dark, Josephine 
rose, groped her way to the pat^, and ate it to 
the last mouthful : polished the plate ; then to 
bed again, tranquillized. 

The large tapestried chamber, once occupied 
by Camille Dujardin, was now turned into a sit- 
ting-room, and it was a favorite room on account 
of the beautiful view from the windows. It had 
also a large side window looking westward, as 
well as four windows looking south : and this 
suited the baroness ; her sight was dim. 

Josephine sat there alone with some work on 
a certain day in her hand: but the needle often 
stopped, and the fair head drooped. 

She heaved a deep sigh. 

To her surprise it was echoed by a sigh that, 
like her own, seemed to come from a heart full 
of sighs. 

She turned hastily round, — it was Jacintha. 

Josephine, as we know, had a woman’s eye for 
reading faces, and she was instantly struck by 
two things, by a certain gravity in Jacintha's 
gaze, and a flutter which the young woman was 
suppressing with tolerable but not complete suc- 
cess. 

Disguising the uneasiness this discovery gave 
her, she looked Jacintha full in the fa,ce, and 
said mildly, but a little coldly : 

“ Well, Jacintha !” 

Jacintha lowered her eyes, and muttered slow- 
ly : 

“The doctor — comes — to-day.” Then raised 
her eyes all in a moment to take Josephine off 
her guard, — but the calm face was impenetra- 
ble. So then Jacintha added, “to our misfor- 
tune,” throwing in still more meaning. 

“ To our misfortune ? What, dear old friend, 
— what do you mean ?” 


“ It is not easy to say what I mean !” 

“And it is impossible for mo to divine it, my 
poor Jacintha !” 

“Madame,” said the other, firmly, “do not 
jest, I entreat you ! the case is too serious. That 
old man makes me shake. You are never safe 
with him. So long as his head is in the clouds, 
you might take his shoes off, and on he’d walk 
and never know it ; but every now and then 
he comes out of the clouds all in one moment, 
without a word of warning, and when he docs 
his eye is on every thing, like a bird’s. Then 
he is so old. He has seen a heap. Take my 
word for it, the old are more knowing than the 
young, let them be as sharp as you like : the old 
have seen every thing. We have only heard 
talk of the most part, with here and there a 
glimpse. To know life to the bottom, you must 
live it out, from tbe soup to the dessert ; and that 
is what the doctor has done, and now he is com- 
ing here.’’ 

“Well, and what follows?” 

“Mademoiselle Laure will go tell him every 
thing : and, if she tells him half what there is 
to tell, your secret will be no secret.” 

“My secret !” gasped Josephine, turning pale. 

“ Don’t look so, madame ! — don’t be frighten- 
ed at poor Jacintha. Sooner or later, you must 
trust somebody besides Mademoiselle Laure.” 

Josephine looked at her with inquiring, fright- 
ened eyes. 

“Mademoiselle ! — I beg pardon, madame, — I 
carried you in my arms when I was a child. 
When I was a girl you toddled at my side, and 
held my gown, and lisped my name ; and used 
to put your little arms round my neck, and kiss 
me, you would. Ah, mademoiselle, I wish those 
days could come back !” 

“Ah! would they could ! — would they could !” 

“And if ever I had the least pain or sickness, 
your dear little face w'ould turn as sorrowful, 
and all the pretty color leave it for Jacintha ; and 
now you are in trouble, in sore trouble, — but 
you turn away from me, you dare not trust me, 
that would be cut in pieces ere I would betray 
you ! Mademoiselle, you are wrong. The poor 
can feel : they have all seen trouble, and a ser- 
vant is the best of friends where she has the heart 
to love her mistress ! and do not I love you ? 
Ah, mademoiselle! do not turn from her who 
has carried you in her arms, and laid you to 
sleep upon her bosom, many and many’s the 
time.” 

Josephine panted audibly. She held out her 
hand eloquently towards Jacintha, but she turn- 
ed her head away, and trembled. 

Jacintha cast a hasty glance round the room. 
Then she trembled too at what she Avas going 
to say, and the effect it might have on the young 
lady. As for Josephine, terrible as the conver- 
sation had become, she made no attempt to 
evade it, for she must learn how far Jacintha 
had penetrated her secret. 

Jacintha, in a hurried, quivering voice, hissed 
into Josephine’s ear these words : 

“When the news of Colonel Raynal’s death 
came, you Avept, but the color came back to your 
cheek. When the ncAvs of his life came, you 
turned to stone. Ah ! my poor young lady, 
there has been more betAveen you and that man 
than should be. Ever since one day you all 
went to Erejus together you Avere a changed 


12G 


WHITE LIES. 


woman. I liavc seen you look at him, as — as a 
wife looks at her man. I have seen him — ” 

“ Hush ! Jacintha. Do not tell me what you 
have seen, — oh ! do not remind me of joys I pray 
God to help me forget. lie was my husband, 
then ! Oh, cruel Jacintha, to remind me of what 
I have been; of what I am, — ah me! ah me! 
ah me!” 

“Your husband ! !” muttered Jacintha, in ut- 
ter amazement. 

Tiien Josephine dropped her head on this faith- 
ful creature’s shoulder, and told her with many 
sobs the story I have told you ; she told it very 
briefly, for it was to a woman, who, though little 
educated, was full of feeling and shrewdness, and 
needed but the bare facts ; she could add the rest 
from her own heart and experience: could tell 
the storm of feelings through which these two 
unhappy lovers must have passed. Her frequent 
sighs of pity and sympathy drew Josephine on to 
pour out all her griefs. When the tale was end- 
ed, she gave a sigh of relief. 

“ It might have been worse,” said Jacintha: 
“ I thought it was worse, — the more fool I — I 
deserve to have my head cut off!” 

It was Josephine’s turn to be amazed. 

“Itcould have been worse!” said she. “ How? 
tell me,” added she, bitterly. “ It would be a con- 
solation to me, could I see that. ” 

Jacintha colored and evaded this question, and 
begged her to go on, — to keep nothing back from 
her. Josephine assured her she had revealed all. 
Jacintha looked at her a moment in silence. 

“It is then as I half suspected.” 

“What?” 

“ You do not know all that is before you. 
You do not see why I am afraid of that old 
man ?” 

“ No : not of him in particnlar. ” 

“ Nor why I want to keep Mademoiselle 
Laure from talking too much to him ?” 

“ No ! Jacintha, be not uneasy. Laure is 
to be trusted. She is wise, — wiser than I am.” 

“ You are neither of you wise. You know 
nothing. Ah ! my poor young mistress, you are 
but a child still. You have a deep w^tcr to 
wade through,” said Jacintha, so solemnly that 
Josephine trembled. “A deep water, and do 
not see it even. You have told me what is past ; 
now I must tell you what is coming ; Heaven 
help me !” 

Josephine trembled. 

“Give me your dear hand to hold, made- 
moiselle, if you believe I love you !” 

“There, dear Jacintha.” 

She trembled. 

“ Have you no misgivings?” 

“Alas! I am full of them: at your words, 
at your manner, they fly around me in crowds.” 

“Have vou no one ?” 

“No!” 

“Turn your head from me a bit, my sweet 
young lady: I am an honest woman, though I 
am not so innocent as you, and I am forced 
against my will to speak my mind plainer than 
I am used to.” 

Then followed a conversation, to detail which 
might anticipate our story ; sufflee it to say that 
it gave Josephine another confidante. 

Laure, coming into the room rather suddenly, 
found her sister weeping on Jacintha’s bosorn, 
and Jacintha crying and sobbing over her. 


Doctor St. Aubin, on his arrival, was agree- 
ably surprised at Madame Raynal’s appearance. 

“ She looks much as usual,” said he. “ She 
is even grown a little. How is your appetite, 
my child ?” 

“ Very good, doctor.” 

“Oh, as to her appetite,” cried the baroness, 
“ it is immense.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“It was,” explained Josephine, “just when I 
began to get better ; but now it is much as usual.” 
This answer had been arranged beforehand by 
Jacintha. She added: “The fact is, we want- 
ed to see you, doctor, and my ridiculous ailments 
were a good excuse for tearing you from Paris.” 

“And now we have succeeded,” said Laure, 
“ let us throw off the mask and talk of other 
things, — above all, of Paris and your eclat." 

“For all that,” persisted the baroness, “she 
was ill when I first wrote, and very ill, too.” 

“Madame Raynal,” said the doctor, solemnly, 
“your conduct has been irregular, to say the 
least : once ill, and your illness announced to 
your medical adviser, you had no right to get 
well, but by his prescriptions. As, then, you 
have shown yourself unfit to conduct a malady, 
it becomes my painful duty to forbid you hence- 
forth ever to be ill at all, without my permission 
first obtained in writing.” 

This badinage was greatly relished by Laure : 
but not at all by the baroness. 

The doctor staid a month at Bcaurepaire, 
then off to Paris again ; and being now a rich 
man, and not too old to enjoy innocent pleas- 
ures, he got into a habit of running backward 
and forward between the two places, spending a 
month or so at each, alternately. So the days 
rolled on. Josephine fell into a state that al- 
most defies description. Her heart was full of 
deadly wounds ; yet this seemed, by some mys- 
terious, half-healing balm, to throb and ache, 
but bleed no more. 

Beams of strange, unreasonable comjflacency 
would shoot across her : the next moment re- 
flection would come ; she would droop her head, 
and sigh piteotisly. Then all would, merge in a 
wild terror of detection. 

She seemed on the borders of a river of bliss, 
— bliss, new, divine, and inexhaustible ; and on 
the other bank mocking, malignant fiends dared 
her to enter that heavenly stream. 

Nature was strong in this young woman ; and 
at this part of her eventful career Nature threw 
herself with giant force into the scale of life. 
The past to her was full of regrets ; the future 
full of terrors, and empty of hope. Yet she did 
not, could not, succumb. Instead of the listless- 
ness and languor of a few months back, she had 
now more energy than ever ; at times it mount- 
ed to irritation. An activity possessed her: it 
broke out in many feminine ways. Among the 
rest she was seized with what ’we men should 
call a cacoethes of the needle ; “a raging de- 
sire” for work. Her fingers itched fo”* work. 
She was at it all day. As devotees retire apart 
to pray, so she to stitch. 

On a wet day she would slip into the kitchen, 
and ply the needle beside Jacintha : on a dry day 
she would hide in the old oak-tree, and sit like 
a mouse, and ply the tools of her craft, and 
make things of no mortal use to man or wom- 
an ; and she tried little fringes of muslin upon 


WHITE LIES. 


127 


her white hand, and held it np in front of her, 
and smiled, and then moaned. It was winter 
and Lanre used sometimes to bring her out a 
thick shawl, as she sat in the old oak-tree, stitch- 
ing, but Josephine nearly always declined it. 
She was impervious to cold. 

Then, her purse being better filled than for- 
merly, she visited the poor more than ever, and, 
above all, the young couples : and took a warm 
interest in their household matters, and gave 
them muslin articles of her own making, and 
sometimes sniffed the soup in a young house- 
wife’s pot, and took a fancy to it, and, if invi- 
ted to taste it, paid her the compliment of eating 
a good plateful of it, and said it was better soup 
than the chateau produced ; and thought so ; 
and whenever some peevish little brat set up a 
yell in its cradle, and the father shook his fist at 
the destroyer of his peace, Madame Raynal’s love- 
ly face filled with concern, not for the sufferer, 
but the yeller, and she flew to it and rocked it 
and coaxed it and consoled it, and the 3 mung 
housewife smiled, and stopped its mouth by 
by other means. And, besides the five-franc 
pieces she gave the infants to hold, these visits 
of Madame Raynal were always followed by 
one from Jacintha with a basket of provisions 
on her stalwart arm, and honest Sir John Bur- 
goyne peeping out at the corner. Kind and 
beneficent as she was, her temper deteriorated a 
little ; it came down from angelic almost to hu- 
man. Lanre and Jacintha were struck with the 
change, assented to every thing she said, and en- 
couraged her in every thing it pleased her caprice 
to do. 

Meantime the baroness lived on her son Ray- 
nal’s letters (they came regularly twice a month). 

Lanre too had a correspondence, a constant 
source of delight to her. 

Edouard Riviere was posted at a great dis- 
tance, and could not visit her ; but their love ad- 
vanced nevertheless rapidly. Every day he 
wrote down for his Laure the acts of the day, 
and twice a week sent the budget to his sweet- 
heart, and told her at the same time every feel- 
ing of his heart. She was less fortunate than 
he ; she had to carry a heavy secret ; but still 
she found plenty to tell him, and tender feelings 
too to vent on him in her own arch, shy, fitful 
way. Letters can enchain hearts ; it was by let- 
ters that these two found themselves impercep- 
tibly betrothed. 

Their union was looked forward to as certain, 
and not very distant. Meantime, it was always 
a comfort and a joy to slip out of sight and chat 
to the beloved one on paper. On this side, at 
least, all was bright. 

One d.ay Dr. St. Aubin, coming back from 
Paris to Beaurepaire rather suddenly, found no- 
body at home but the baroness. Josephine and 
Laure were gone to Frejus, — had been there more 
than a week. She was ailing again : so, as Fre- 
jus had agreed with her once, Laure thought it 
might again. 

“ I will send for them back, now you are 
come.” 

“No!” said the doctor, “why do that? I 
will go over there and see them.” 

Accordingly, a day or two after this, St. Aubin 
hired a carriage and went off early in the morn- 
ing to Frejus. In so small a place he expected 
to find the young ladies at once ; but, to his sur- 


prise, no one knew them or had heard of them. 
He was at a nonplus, and just about to return 
home and laugh at himself and the baroness for 
this wild-goose chase, when he fell in with a face 
he knew, one Mivart, a surgeon, a young man 
I of some talent, who had made his acquaintance 
I in Paris. Mivart accosted him with great re- 
! spect ; and, after the first compliments, iuform- 
' ed him that he had been settled some months in 
' this little town, and was doing a fair stroke of 
business. 

“Killing some, and letting Nature cure others, 
— eh I monsieur ?” said the doctor. 

Mivart grinned. The doctor then revealed in 
' general terms the occasion that had brought him 
. to Frejus. 

! “ Are they pretty women, your friends ? 1 

think I know all the pretty Avomen about,” said 
Mivart, with unpardonable levity. 

“ They are not pretty,” replied St. Aubin. 

Mivart’s interest in them faded visibly out of 
his countenance. 

I “But they arc beautiful. The elder might 
pass for Venus, and the younger for Hebe.” 

“I know them!” cried he: “they are pa- 
tients of mine.” 

The doctor colored. 

“Ah, indeed!” 

“In the absence of your greater skill,” said 
Mivart, politel}', “it is "Madame St. Aubin and 
her sister you are looking for, is it not?” 

“JNIadame St. Aubin ?” 

I “ Yes ! and how stupid of me not to know by 
; the name who \'ou Avere inquiring for.” 

I “ It is a curious coincidence, certainly : but it 
: happens to be a Madame Raynal I am looking 
' for, and not a Madame St. Aubin.” 

“ Madame Raynal? don’t knoAv her.” 

Mivart then condoled Avith the doctor for this, 
that Madame St. Aubin Avas not the friend he 
AA'as in search of. 

“ She and her sister,” said he, “are so lovely 
they make one ill to look at them : the deepest 
blue eyes you ever saAv, both of them : high fore- 
heads, teeth like ivory mixed Avith pearl, such ar- 
istocratic feet and hands, and their arms — oh I” 

I and, by way of general summary, the young sur- 
' geon kissed the tips of his fingers, and Avas silent : 
language succumbed under the theme. 

The doctor smiled coldly. 

“If you had come an hour sooner, you might 
haA'e seen Mademoiselle Laure ; she Avas in the 
town.” 

“ Mademoiselle Laure ? who is that ?” 

“Why, Madame St. Aubin’s sister.” 

“ Hum ! Avhero do these paragons Ha’-c ?” 

I “ They lodge at a small farm : it belongs to a 
AvidoAv : her name is Roth.” 

They parted. 

I Doctor St. Aubin AA'alked sloAvly toAvards his 
carriage, his hands behind him ; his eyes on the 
ground. He bade the driver inquire Avhere the 
WidoAv Roth lived, and learned it Avas about 
half a league out of the tOAvn. He droA'e to the 
farm-house: Avhen the carriage droA^e up, a young 
lady looked out of the AvindoAv on the first floor. 
It Avas Laure de Beaurepaire. She caught the 
doctor’s eye, and he hers. She came down and 
Avelcomed him. She Avas all in a flutter. 

“ IIoAV did 3’’oa find us out ?” 

‘ ‘ From your medical attendant, ” said the doc-, 
tor, dryly. 


128 


WHITE LIES. 


Laure looked keenly in his face. 

“ He said he was in attendance on two para- 
gons of beauty, — blue eyes, white teeth and 
arms.” 

“And you found us out by that ?” inquired 
Laure, looking still more keenly at him. 

“ Hardly ; but it was my last chance of find- 
ing von, so I came. Where is Madame llay- 
nal ?” 

“ Come into this room, dear friend. I w'ill go 
and find her.” 

Full twenty minutes ivas the doctor kept wait- 
ing, and then in came Laure, guyly crying : 

“I have 'hunted her high and low, and where 
do you think my lady was? Sitting out in the 
garden, — come.” 

Sure enough, they found Josephine in the gar- 
den, seated on a low chair. She smiled ivhen 
the doctor came up to her, and asked after her 
mother. There was an air of languor about her ; 
her color w’as clear, delicate, and beautiful. 

“You have been unwell, my child?” 

“ A little, dear friend : you know me : always 
ailing, and tormenting those I love.” 

“Well! but, Josephine, this place and this 
sweet air always sets you up. Look at her now, 
doctor ; did you ever see her look better?” 

“Yes.” 

“How can you say so? See what a color. 
I never saw her look more lovely.” 

“I never saw her look so lovely but I have 
seen her look better. Your pulse, my child ! 
A little languid?” 

“ Yes, I am a little.” 

“ Do you stay at Beaurepaire ?’• inquired 
Laure; “if so, we will come home.” 

“ You will stay here another fortnight,” said 
the doctor, authoritatively. 

“Prescribe some of your nice tonics for me, 
doctor,” said Josephine, coaxingly. 

“Ko! I can’t do that; you are in the hands 
of another practitioner.” 

“ What does that matter ? You were at Par- 
is.” 

“ It is not the etiquette in our profession to 
interfere with another man’s patients.” 

“ Oh dear ! I am so sorry,” began Josephine. 

“I see nothing here that my good friend Mi- 
vart is not competent to deal with,” said the doc- 
tor, interrupting her. 

Then followed some general conversation, at 
the end of which the doctor once more laid his 
commands on them to stay another fortnight 
where they were, and he bade them good-bye. 

When he was gone, Laure went to the door of 
the kitchen, and called out, “ Madame Jouve- 
nel ! Madame Jouvenel ! you may come into the 
garden 1” 

The doctor drove away; but, instead of going 
straight to Beaurepaire, he ordered the driver to 
return to the town. He then walked toMivart’s 
house. 

He was an hour and three quarters closeted 
with Mivart. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Edouard Riviere contrived one Saturday 
night to work olF all arrears of business, and start 
for Beaurepaire. He had received a very kind 


letter from Laure, and his longing to see ber 
overpow'ered him. On the road his eyes often 
glittered and his cheek flushed with expectation. 
At last he got there. His heart beat ; for four 
months he had not seen her. He ran up into the 
drawing-room, and there found the baroness 
alone ; she welcomed him cordially, but soon let 
him know Laure and her sister w'ere at Frejus. 
His heart sank. Frejus w’as a long way off. 
But this was not all. Laure’s letter was dated 
from Beaurepaire, yet it must have been w'ritten 
at Frejus. He went to Jacintha, and demanded 
an explanation of this. The ready Jacintha said 
it looked as if she meant to be home directly. 

“That is a hint for me to get their rooms 
ready,” said Jacintha. 

“This letter must have come here inclosed in 
another,” said Edouard, sternly. 

“ Like enough,” replied Jacintha, with an a])- 
pearance of sovereign indifference. 

Edouard looked at her. “I will go to Fre- 
jus.” 

“ So I w'ould,” said Jacintha, faltering a little, 
but not perceptibly : “you might meet them on 
the road, — if so be they come the same road, — 
there are two roads, you know’.” 

Edouard hesitated ; but he ended by sending 
Dard to the town on his ow’n horse with orders to 
leave him at the inn and borrow a fresh horse. 
“ I shall just have time,” said he. He rode to 
Frejus and inquired at the inns and the post-of- 
fice for Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire. They did 
not know her: then he inquired for Madame 
Raynal. No such name known. He rode by 
the sea-side upon the chance of their seeing him, 
— no ! He paraded on horseback throughout 
the place in hopes every moment that a w'indow 
would open, and a fair face shine at it, and call 
to him, — no ! At last his time w’as up, and he 
was obliged to ride back — sick at heart — toBeau- 
repairc. He told the baroness with some natural 
irritation what had happened. She w’as as much 
surprised as he was. 

“ I write to Madame Raynal at the post-office, 
Frejus,” said she. ^ 

“And Madame Raynal gets A’our letters?” 

“ Of eourse she does, since she answ’ers them ; 
you can not have inquired at the post.” 

“ Madame, it w’as the first place I inquired at, 
and neither Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire nor 
Madame Raynal were known there.” 

Both parties were positive, and Jacintha, w’ho 
could have given the clue, seemed so puzzled 
herself, that they did not even apply to her. 
Edouard took a sorrowful leave of the baroness, 
and set out on his journey home. 

Oh how sad and w’eary that ride seemed now 
by what it had been, coming. His disappoint- 
ment was deep and irritating, and, ere he had 
ridden half-way, a torturer fastened on his heart. 
That torture is called suspicion ; a vague and 
shadow’y, but gigantic phantom, that ojiprcsses 
and rends the mind more terribly than certainty. 
In this state of vague, sickening suspicion he re- 
mained some days: then came an affectionate 
letter from Laure, who had actually returned 
home. In this she expressed her regret and dis- 
appointment at having missed him ; blamed her- 
self for misleading him, but explained that their 
stay at Frejus had been prolonged from day to 
day far beyond her expectation. “ The stupidity 
of the post-office Avas more than she could ac- 


WHITE LIES. 


129 


count for,” said she. Dut what went farthest to 
console Edouard was that after this contreteuijis 
she never ceased to invite him to come to Beau- 
repaire. No\v before this, though she said many 
kind and pretty things in her letters, she had 
never invited him to visit the chateau ; he had 
noticed this. “Sweet soul,” thought he, “she 
really is vexed. I must be a brute to think any 
more about it. Still — ” So this wound was 
skinned over. 

At last, what he called his lucky star ordained 
that he should be transferred to the very post his 
commandant Raynal had once occupied. He 
sought and obtained permission to fix his quar- 
ters in the little village near Beaurepaire. This 
arrangement could not be carried out for three 
months ; but the prospect of it w'as joyful all that 
time, — joyful to both lovers. Laure needed this 
consolation, for she was very unhappy. Her be- 
loA'ed sister since their return from Frejus had 
fallen into a state that gave her hourly sorrow 
and anxiety. The flush of health was gone from 
Josephine’s cheek, and so was her late energy. 

She fell back into deep depression and languor, 
broken occasionally by fits of nervous irrita- 
tion. 

She would sit for hours together at one window. 
Can the reader guess which way that window 
looked ? Laure trembled for two things — her life 
and her reason. But Edouard would come : he 
was a favorite of J osephine : he would help to dis- 
tract her attention from those sorrows which a 
lapse of years alone could cure. 

On every account, then, Edouard’s visit was 
looked forward to with hope and joy. 

He came. He was received with open arms. 
He took up his quarters at his old lodgings, but 
spent his evenings, and every leisure hour, at the 
chateau. 

lie Avasvery much in love, and showed it. He 
adhered to his Laure like a leech ; and followed 
her about like a little dog, and was always happy 
at the bare sight of her. 

This Avould have made her very happy if she 
had had nothing great to distract her attention 
and her heart; but she had Josephine, whose 
deep depression and fits of irritation and terror 
filled her with anxiety; and so Edouard AA^as in 
the Avay now and then. On these occasions he 
Avas too vain to see Avhat she Avas too polite to 
shoAV him offensh’ely. 

On this she became A'cxed at his obtusencss. 

“ Does he think I can be always at his beck 
and call ?” said she. 

“ She is always after her sister,” said he. 

lie Avas just beginning to be jealous of Jose- 
phine, Avhen the folloAving incident occurred. 

Laure and the doctor AA’ere discussing Jose- 
])hine. Edouard pretended to be reading a book, 
but he listened to every Avord. 

At last Dr. St. Aubin gaA'e it as his opinion 
that Madame Raynal did not make enough blood. 

“Oh ! if I thought that !” cried Laure. 

“ Well, then, it is so, I assure you.” 

“ Doctor,” said Laure, “ do you remember one 
day you said blood could be drawn from young 
veins and poured into old ones?” 

“ I don’t remember saying so, but it is aAvcll- 
known fact.” 

“And healthy blood into a sick patient?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I don’t believe it.” 


“ Then you place a very narroAV limit to sci- 
ence,” said the doctor, coldly. 

“ Did you cA'er see it done !” asked Laure. 

“I have not only seen it done, but haA’e deme 
it myself!” 

“ Then do it for us. There’s my arm, take 
blood from that for dear Josephine!” and she 
thrust a Avhite arm out under his eye Avith such 
a bold moA'ement and such a look of fire and 
love as never beamed from common eyes ! 

A keen, cold pang shot through the human 
heart of Edouard Riviere. 

The doctor started and gazed at her Avith ad- 
miration ; then he hung his head. 

“I could not do it. I love you both too Avell 
to drain either of life’s current.” 

Laure veiled her fire, and began to coax. 

“ Once a week : just once a Aveek, dear, dear 
doctor : you knoAV 1 should never miss it. I am 
so full of that health which IleaA'en denies to 
her I loA’e.” 

“ Let us try milder measures first,” said the 
doctor. “ I have most faith in time.” 

“ What if I were to take her to Frejus : hith- 
erto the sea has always done AA’onders for her.” 

“ Frejus by all means,” said Edouard, min- 
gling suddenly in the conversation; “and this 
time I will go Avith you, and then I shall find out 
Avhere you lodged before, and hoAv the boobies 
cair.e to say they did not knoAv you.” 

Laure bit her lip. It flashed across her just 
then how much Edouard Avas in her Avay and Jo- 
sephine’s. Their best friends are in the Avay of 
those who liaA^e secrets. Presently the doctor 
Avent to his study. Edouard began in a mock 
soliloquy. 

“ I Avonder Avhether any one will CA'er Ioa'c me 
Avell enough to give a drop of their blood for 
me !” 

“If you Avere in sickness and sorroAA', — Avho 
knows?” 

“ I would soon be in sickness and .sorrow if I 
thought that.” 

“Don’t jest Avith such matters, monsieur.” 

“ I don’t jest. I Avish I aa^s as ill as Madame 
Raynal is, to be loved as she is.” 

“You must resemble her in other things to be 
loved as she is.” 

“You have often made me feel that of late, 
dear Laure.” 

This touched her. She fought doAvn the kind- 
ly feeling. 

* “I am glad of it,” said she, out of perverse- 
ness. She added after a while : “Edouard, you 
are naturally jealous !” 

“ Not the least in the world, Laure, I assure 
you. I haA^e many faults : but jealous I am not.” 

“ You are, and suspicious, too : there is some- 
thing in your character that alarms me for our 
happiness.” 

“There are things in your conduct, Laure, I 
could Avish explained.” 

“ There ! I told you so. Y'ou hav'e not confi- 
dence in me.” 

“ Pray don’t say that, dear Laure, I have 
every confidence in you : noAv don’t ask me to di- 
vest myself of my senses and my reason.” 

“ I don’t ask you to do that or any thing else 
for me , — au plaisir." 

“ Where are you going now ? he ! he 1 I nev- 
er can get a Avord of peace with you.” 

“I am going up stairs to my sister.” 


9 


m 


WHITE LIES. 


“Poor Madame Eaynal, she makes it very I 
hard for me not to dislike her.” 

“Dislike my Josephine ?” and Laure bristled 
visibly. 

“ She is an angel, but I should hate an angel 
if it came forever between you and me.” 

“ Excuse me, she was here long before you. 
It is you that come between her and me.” 

“ I came because I was told I should be wel- 
come,” said Edouard bitterly, and equivocating 
a little: he added, “ and I dare say I shall go, 
when I am told I am one too many.” 

“ Bad heart ! who says you are one too many 
in the house ? But you are too €xigea7it, mon- 
sieur ; you assume the husband, and you tease 
me. It is selfish : can you not sec I am anxious 
and worried ? you ought to be kind to me, and 
soothe me : that is what I look for from you, 
and, instead of that, you are a never-ending wor- 
ry.” 

“I should not be if you loved me as I love 
you. I giv'e you no rival. Shall I tell you the 
cause of all this? You have secrets.” 

“ What secrets ?” 

“ Is it me you ask ? am I trusted with them? 
Secrets are a bond that nothing can overcome. 
It is to talk secrets you run away from me to Ma- 
dame Raynal.” 

“ Well,” said Laure, coolly, “ and who taught 
me?’ 

“ Colonel Dujardin ?” 

Laure was taken quite aback : she misunder- 
stood for a moment the direction of Edouard’s 
jealousy. He eyed her with swelling suspicion. 
She let him go on this wrong tack awhile. By- 
and-by she said: “Was it Colonel Dujardin 
who taught me reticence ? I thought it had been 
yourself.” 

“ Do I deserve this sarcasm ? The reticence 
that springs from affection is one thing : that 
which comes from the want of it is another. 
Where did you lodge at Frejus, mademoiselle 
the Reticent ?” 

“ In a grotto, dry at low water. Monsieur the 
Inquisitive.” 

“That is enough, since you will not tell me, 

I will find it out before I am a week older.” 

“Monsieur, I thank you for playing the tyrant 
a little prematurely : it has put me on my guard. 
Let us part! we are not suited to each other.” 

“ Part ! Laure ? that is a terrible word to pass 
between you and me. 'Forgive me! I suppose 
I am jealous.” 

“You are — you are actually jealous of my 
sister. Well, I tell you plainly I love you : but 
I love my sister better. I never could love any 
man as I do her : it is ridiculous to expect it.” 

“ And you think I could bear to play second 
fiddle to her all my life ?” 

“ I don’t ask you. Go and play first trumpet 
with some other lady.” 

“ You speak your wishes so plainly now, I 
have nothing to do but to obey.” 

He kissed her hand, and went away disconso- 
lately. 

Laure, instead of going to Josephine, her de- 
termination to do which had mainly caused the 
quarrel, sat sadly down, and leaned her head on 
her hand. 

“ I am cruel ! I am ungrateful ! he has gone 
away broken-hearted ! and what shall I do with- 
out him ? — little fool ! I* love him better than 


he loves me. He will never forgive me I I have 
wounded his vanity, — and they are vainer than 
we are ! If we meet at dinner, I will be so 
kind to him, he will forget it all. No ! Ed- 
ouard will not come to dinner. He is not a 
spaniel that you can beat, and then whistle back 
again. Something tells me I have lost him ; and 
if I have, what shall I do ? I will write him a 
note. I will ask him to forgive me !” 

She sat down at the table, and took a .sheet of 
note-paper and began to write a few conciliato- 
ry words. She was so occupied in making these 
kind enough, and not too kind, that a light step 
approached her unobserved. She looked up and 
there was Edouard. She whipped the paper off 
the table. 

A spasm of suspicion crossed Edouard’s face. 

Laure caught it. 

“Well,” said she. 

“ Dear Laure, I came back to beg you to for- 
get what passed just now.” 

Laure’s eye flashed : his return showed her her 
power. She abused it directly. 

“ How can I forget it if you come reminding 
me?” 

“ Dear Laura, now don’t be so unkind, so cruel, 
— I have not come back to tease you, sweet one. 
I come to knov/ what I can do to please you : 
to make you love me again ?” 

“I’ll tell you. Don’t come near me for a 
month.” 

Edouard started from his knees white as ashes 
with mortification and wounded love. 

“This is how you treat me for humbling my- 
self, when it is you that ought to ask forgive- 
ness !” 

“ Why should I ask what I don’t care about ?” 

“What do you care about ? — except that sis- 
ter of yours. You have no heart. And on this 
cold-blooded creature I have wasted a love an 
empress might have been proud of inspiring ! I 
pray God some man may sport with your affec- 
tions, you heartless creature, as you have played 
with mine, and make you suffer what I suffer 
now !” 

And with a burst of inarticulate grief and 
rage he flung out of the room. 

Laure sank trembling on the sofa a little 
while : then with a mighty effort rose and went 
to comfort her sister. 

Edouard came no more to Beaurepaire. 

There is an old French proverb, and a wise 
one, Rien n'est certain que I'iwprcvu ; it means you 
can make sure of nothing but this, that matters 
will not turn as you feel sure they will ; and for 
this reason you, who are thinking of suicide be- 
cause trade is declining, speculation failing, 
bankruptcy impending, or your life going to be 
blighted forever by unrequited love, — don't do it ! 
—-whether you are English, American, French, 
or German, listen to a man that knows what is 
what, and don't do it. Why not ? because none 
of these horrors will affect you as you are proph^ 
esying they will. The joys we expect arc not so 
bright, nor the troubles so dark, as we fancy they 
will be. Bankruptcy coming is one thing, come 
is quite another : and no heart or life can be re- 
ally blighted at twenty years of age. The love- 
sick girls, that are picked out of the canal alive, 
marry another man, have eight brats, and screech 
with laughter when they think of sweetheart, 


WHITE LIES. 


and probably blockhead, No. 1, for whom they 
were fools enough to wet themselves, let alone 
kill themselves. This happens invariably. The 
love-sick girls, that are picked out of the canal 
dead, have fled from short-lived memory to eter- 
nal misery, from guilt that time never failed to 
cure to anguish incurable. In this world rien 
n'est certain que Vimprevu. 

Edouard and Laure were tender lovers, at a 
distance. How much happier and more loving 
they thought they should be beneath the same 
roof. They came together. Their prominent 
faults of character rubbed : the secret that was 
in the house did its work : and, altogether, they 
quarrelled. 

Dard had been saying to Jacintha for ever so 
long, “ When granny dies, I will marry you.” 

Granny died, Dard took possession of her 
little property. Up came a glittering official, 
and turned him out. He was not her heir. Per- 
rin the notary was her heir. He had bought the 
inheritance of her two sons, long since dead. 

Dard had not only looked on the cottage and 
cow as his, but had spoken of them for years. 
The disappointment, and the irony of his com- 
rades, ate into him. 

“ I will leave this cursed place !” said he. 

Josephine instantly sent for him to Bcaure- 
paire. He came, and was factotum, with the nov- 
elty of a fixed salary. Jacintha found him a 
new little odd job or two. She set him to dance 
on the oak floors with a brush fastened to his 
right foot ; and, after a rehearsal or two, she 
made him wait at table. Didn't he bang the 
things about ! and wdien he brought a lady a dish, 
and she did not instantly attend, he gave her el- 
bow' a poke to attract attention : then she squeak- 
ed ; and he grinned at her double absurdity in 
minding a touch, and not minding the real busi- 
ness of the table. 

His w'rongs rankled in him. He vented an- 
tique phrases. 

“ I want a change, — this village is the last 
place the Almighty made,” etc. 

He w'as attacked with a moral disease, viz. , he 
affected the company of soldiers. They had seen 
the world. He spent his weekly salary carous- 
ing with the military, a class of men so brilliant 
that they are not expected to ])ay for their share 
in the drink ; they contribute the anecdotes and 
the familiar appeals to Heaven. 

Present at many recitals, the heroes of which 
lost nothing by being their own historians, Dard 
imbibed a taste for military adventure. His very 
talk, w'hich used to be so homely, began now to 
bo tinselled w'ith big sw'elling words of vanity im- 
ported from the army. I need hardly say these 
bombastical phrases did not elevate his general 
dialect : they lay distinct upon the surface, “ like 
lumps of marl upon a barren soil, encumbering 
the ground they can not fertilize.” 

Jacintha reminded him of an incident con- 
nected with w'arfare — wounds. 

“ Do you remember how you were down upon 
your luck when you did but cut your foot? 
Why, that is nothing in the army. They never 
go out to fight but some come back wdth arms 
off, and some with legs off, and some with heads, 
and some don’t come back at all, and how would 
you like that?” 

This view of w-arfare at first cooled Dard’s im- 
patience for the field. But the fighting half of 


131 

his heart received an ally in one Sergeant La 
Croix : not a bad name for a military aspirant. 
This sergeant was at the village on a short leave 
of absence, and was now only waiting to march 
the new recruits to Paris, to join the army of the 
Rhine. Sergeant La Croix was a man who could 
by the force of his eloquence make soldiering ap- 
pear the most delightful as well as glorious of 
human pursuits. His tongue fired the inexpe- 
rienced soul with a love of arms, as do the drums 
and trumpets and gallant ringing tread of sol- 
diers marching under colors that blaze and bay- 
onets that glitter in the sun. He would have 
been invaluable in England, where we recruit 
by jargon. He was superfluous in France, where 
they recruited by compulsion ; but he was orna- 
mental, and he set Dard and one or two more on 
fire. Sergeant La Croix had so keen a sense of 
military glory, that he did not deign to descend 
to that merely verbal honor civilians call verac- 
ity. 

To speak plainly, the sergeant was a fluent, fer- 
tile, interesting, sonorous, ever-ready, and most 
audacious liar ; and such was his success, that 
Dard and one or two more became mere human 
fiction-pipes, irrigating a small rural district with 
false views of military life, derived from that in- 
exhaustible spring. At last the long-threaten- 
ed conscription was levied ; every person fit to 
bear arms, and not coming under the allowed 
exceptions, had a number given him ; and at a 
certain hour the numbers corresponding to these 
were deposited in an urn, and one-third of them 
were drawn in presence of the authorities. Those 
men whose numbers were drawn had to go for 
soldiers. Jacintha awaited the result in great 
tremor. She could not sit at home. She left 
the chateau, and went down the road to meet 
Dard, who had promised to come and tell her 
the result as soon as known. At last she saw 
him approaching in a disconsolate way. 

“ Oh, Dard, speak ! are we undone ? are you 
a dead man ?” cried she. 

“What d’ye mean?” 

“Have they made a soldier of you?” 

“No such luck: I shall die a man of all 
work.” 

“And you are sorry? you unnatural little 
monster ! you have no feeling for me, then ?” 

“ Oh yes ! I have ; but glory is No. 1 with me 
now, citizeness !” 

“ How loud the little bantams crow ! You 
leave glory to six feet high, Dard.” 

“ General Bonaparte isn’t much higher than 
I am, and glory sits upon his brow. Why 
shouldn’t glory sit upon my brow ?” 

“ Because it would w'eigh you dowm, and 
smother you, you little fool.” 

“Oh, we know you girls don’t care for repu- 
tation.” 

“ Don’t we, though ?” 

“ But you care for the blunt.” 

“ Agreed !” 

“ Well, then, soldiers are the boys that make 
it.” 

“ La ! Dard, I never heard that before.'’ 

“ At the wars I mean : pillaging and cetera, 
not on three sous a day here .at home of course. 
Why, Jacintha,” said Dard, lowering his voice 
mysteriously, “there’s scarce a soldier in the 
army that "hasn’t got a thousand francs hid in 
his knapsack.” 


132 


WHITE LIES. 


“La ! now ! But, then, what is the use of it 
if he is to be killed next minute ?” 

“I’ll tell yon. When the soldier is dead — ” 

“Yes, Dard.” 

“ The general turns it into paper money, and 
sends it home to the Minister of War.” 

“Ay! like enough.” 

“ 7/(3 takes it, and puts as much to it out of 
the public chest : then he sends it all to the dead 
man’s wife, or, if he has got no wife, to his sweet- 
heart. Then with that she can marry the chap 
that she has been taking up with all the time the 
first was getting his brains knocked out. Oh, I 
am up to all the moves now 1 ” 

“ But, Hard, you forgot, I couldti’t bear you 
to be killed at any price.” 

“ No more could I,” was the frank reply ; “ but 
I shouldn’t. The enemy always fire too high: 
that’s through nervishness ! We’ve licked ’em 
so often. Most of the bullets go over our army 
altogether into the trees round about the field 
of battle : the chaps that do get killed are your 
six-foot ones : their stupid heads are always in 
the way of every thing, you know. My heart is 
quite down about it, girl. Here is my number, 
ninety-nine !” 

“And it was not drawn, Dard, you are 
sure ?” 

“No! I tell you that I saw them all drawn. 
I saw the last number in the gentleman’s hand : 
it was sixty something. So I came to tell you, 
because — because — ” 

“Because you were as glad as I am. I don’t 
think but what a bullet would kill a little one as 
well as a big one. You are well out of that, 
Dard. Come and help me draw the water.” 

“ Well ! since there is no immortal glory to 
be picked up to-day, I will go in for odd jobs 
again.” 

“ That is you, Dard. That is what you arc 
fittest for.” 

While they were drawing the water, a voice 
was heard hallooing. Dard looked up, and there 
was a rigid military figure, with a tremendous 
mustache, peering about. Dard was overjoyed. 

“ It is my friend ! it is my boon companion ! 
Come here, old fellow. Ain’t I glad to see you ! 
that is all ?” 

La Croix marched towards the pair. 

“ What are you skulking here for, recruit nine- 
ty-nine?” said he sternly, dropping the boon com- 
panion in the sergeant: “the rest are on the 
road.” 

“The rest, old fellow? what do you mean? 
Why, I was not drawn.” 

“ Yes, you were.’’ 

“No, I wasn’t.” 

“ Thunder of war, but I say you were. Yours 
was the last number.” 

“That is an unlucky guess of yours, for I saw 
the last number. Look liere :” and he fumbled 
in his pocket and produced his number. 

La Croix instantly fished out a corresponding 
number. 

“ Well : and here you are : this was the last 
number drawn.” 

Dard burst out laughing. 

“You goose,” said he, “that is sixty-six, — 
look at it.” 

“Sixty-six,” roared the sergeant, “no more 
than yours is, — they are both sixty-sixes when 
you play tricks with them, and turn them up like 


that : but they are both ninety-nines when you 
look at them fair.” 

Dard scratched his head. 

“ Come, no shirking : make up his bundle, girl 
and let us be off, we have got our marching or, 
ders. We are going to the Khine. ” 

“And do you think I will let him go?” scream- 
ed .Jacintha. “ No ! I will say one word to Ma- 
dame Raynal, and she will buy him a substitute 
directly.” 

Dard stopped her fiercely. 

“No! I have told all in the village that I 
would go the first chance : it is come, and I’ll go. 
I won’t stay to be laughed at about this too. If 
I was sure to be cut to pieces, I’d go ! Give over 
blubbering, my lass, and get us a bottle of the 
best wine, and while we are drinking it, the scr- 



Jacintha knew the obstinate toad. She did 
as she was bid, and soon the little bundle was 
ready, and the two men faced the wine : La 
Croix radiant and bellicose, — Dard, crestfallen 
but dogged (for there was a little bit of good 
French stuff at the bottom of the creature), and 
Jacintha rocking herself, with her apron over her 
head. 

La Croix. “I’ll give you a toast. ‘Here’s 
gunpowder.’ ” 

Jacintha. “Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!” 

7)a?'7 (angrily). “ Do drop that, Jacintha, — do 
you think that is encouraging ? Sergeant, I told 
this poor girl all about glory before you came, 
but she was not ripe for it, — say something to 
cheer her up, for I can’t.” 

“I can !” cried this trumpet of battle, empty- 
ing its glass. “ Attention, young woman.” 

“ Oh dear ! oh dear ! yes sir.” 

“A French soldier is a man who carries France 
in his heart.” 

“But if the cruel foreign soldiers kill him? 
oh!” 

“If they do, he does not care a . Every 

man must die : horses likewise and dogs, and 
donkeys when they come to the end of their trou- 
bles. But dogs and donkeys and chaps in blouses 
can’t die gloriously as Dard may, if he has any 
luck at all : so from this hour, if there was twice 
as little of him, be proud of him, for from this 
time he is a part of France and her renown. 
Come, recruit ninety-nine, shoulder your traps 
at duty’s call, and let us go off in form. Atten- 
tion ! ! Quick, march ! Ten thousand devils ! is 
that the way I showed you to march ? Didn’t I 
tell you to start from the left leg ? Now try again. 
Quick — march ! left, right — left, right — left, 
right. Now you’ve got it — drat ye — keep it, 
left, right-— left, right — left, right, ‘And the ser- 
geant marched the little odd jobber to the 
wars. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Josephine. “ Laure, the doctor is cold to me.” 
Laure. “And to me too.” 

Josephine. “ I have noticed it ever since we 
came from Frejus, Laure.” 

Laure. “ Yes, and I have no patience with 
him : of course you know why it is?” 

Josephine. “No ! -would to Heaven I did !” 
Laure. “ It is jealousy : these men are twice as 


WHITE LIES. 


133 


jealovisas we are, and about twice as many things. 
We had another doctor at Frejus.” 

Josephine. “But how could I help? No! It 
must be more than that. Oh ! if he suspects ! ! ! ” 

Inure. “ No, dear ! nchv don’t torment yourself. 
I saw his face when he said, ‘ I decline to inter- 
fere with another doctor’s patients I’ ‘Another 
doctor’s patients too!’ such a phrase!” 

Josephine. “Pray Heaven you may be right! 
He is very cold to us, especially to me.” 

Laure (sharply). “Don’t be fanciful, dear.” 

Josephine. “Forgive me. Let us speak of 
something else. What have you done to Edou- 
ard ?” 

Laure. “ That is a question I have answered, 
let me see, twelve times.” 

Josephine. “Yes, Laure, but your answers 
were no answers at all, and I want the truth.” 

Laure. “He is a little ill-tempered, jealous, 
tyrannical wretch.” 

.Josephine. “ Who is he jealous of?” 

Laure made a face, and began to count on her 
fingers. “First, of Camille Dujardin.” 

.Josephine. ‘ ‘ Oh ! ” 

Laure. “Secondly, of Josephine de Beaure- 
paire.” 

Josephine. “Ah!” 

Laure. “ Thirdly, of all the world.” 

.Josephine. “I must hear his account, and 
make you friends again.” 

Laure opened her mouth to remonstrate, but 
Josephine implored her to let her have her own 
way. 

“I have not many joys, Laure: this one w'O 
can all have, the pleasure of making peace be- 
tween our friends that misunderstand one an- 
other.” 

“My poor sister!” cried Laure, “when will 
you think of yourself, and leave fools and ego- 
tists to mend their own breakages?” 

“ You consent to my interference, Laure ?” 

No answer. 

Edouard, the moment his temper cooled, be- 
came very sad. He longed to be friends again 
with Laure, but he did not know how. His 
own pride held him back, and so did his fear 
that he had gone too far, and that his offended 
mistress would not listen to an offer of recon- 
ciliation from him. 

What a change! He sat down alone now to 
all his little meals. No sweet mellow voices in 
his ear, after the fatigues of the day. 

His landlady brought him in a letter in a 
lady’s handwriting. His heart gave a leap. 
But, on examining it, he was disappointed. It 
w'as something like Laure’s, but it was not hers. 
It proved to be three lines from Josephine, re- 
questing him to come and speak to her. He 
went over directly. Josephine was in the Pleas- 
ance. 

“What has she been doing to you, dear?” 
began she, kindly. 

“ Has not she told vou, Madame Raynal?” 

“No!” 

“But she has told you what I said to herV' 
said Edouard, looking uneasy. 

“No: she is refractory. She will tell me 
nothing ; and that makes me fear she is the one 
in fault.” 

“ Oh, if she docs not accuse mo, I am sure I 
will not accuse her. I dare say I am to blame : 


it is not her fault that I can not make her love 
me.” 

“ But you can : she does.” 

“Yes! but she loves others better, and she 
holds me out no hope it will ever be otherwise. 
You are an angel, Josephine; but on this one 
point how can I hope for your sympathy. Alas! 
you are my most terrible rival.” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“ She told me plainly she never could love me 
as she loves you.” 

“And you believed her?” 

“I saw no reason to disbelieve her.’’ 

“ Foolish boy ! Dear Edouard, you must not 
attach so much importance to every word we 
say. Does my sister at her age know every 
thing? is she a prophet? Perhaps she really 
fancies she will always love her sister as she does 
now ; but you are a man of sense : you ought 
to smile and let her talk. When you marry her 
you will take her to your own house. She will 
only see me now and then. She will have you 
and your affection always present. Each day 
some new tie between you and her. You two 
will share every joy, every sorrow. Your chil- 
dren playing at your feet, and reflecting the fea- 
tures of both parents, will make you one: your 
hearts will melt together in that blessed union 
which raises earth so near to heaven; and then 
you will wonder you could ever be jealous of 
poor Josephine, who must never hope — ah 
me ! ” 

Edouard, wrapped up in himself, mistook Jo- 
sephine’s emotion at the picture she had drawn 
of conjugal love. He soothed her, vowed upon 
his honor he never w'ould separate Laure from 
her. 

“My dear sister,” he cried; “you are an 
angel and I am a fiend. Jealousy must be the 
meanest of all sentiments. I never will be jeal- 
ous again, — above all, jealous of you, sweet 
angel : after all, you are my sister, as w’ell as 
hers, and she has a right to love you since I love 
you.” 

“You make me very happy when you talk 
so,” sighed Josephine : “peace is made?” 

“Never again to be broken. I will go and 
ask her pardon. What is the matter now?” 

Jacintha was cackling very loud, and dismiss- 
ing w'ith ignominy two beggars, male and fe- 
male. 

Jacintha was industry personified, and had no 
I sympathy with mendicity. In vain tlie couple 
‘ protested. Heaven knows with wliat truth, that 
they were not beggers, but mechanics out of 
w'ork. “March ! tramp!” wns Jacintha’s least 
j word. She added, giving the rein to her imag- 
ination, “Til loose the dog.” The man moved 
' away, the wmman turned appealingly to Edou- 
ai'd. He and Josephine came towards the group, 
i She had got a sort of large hood, and in that 
hood she carried an infant on her shoulders. 
Josephine inspected this arrangement. 

“ It looks sickly, poor little thing.” 

“ What can you expect, my young lady ? its 
mother had to rise and go about when she ought 
to have been in her bed : and now she has not 
enough to give it.” 

“Oh dear!” cried Josephine. “elacinthn,” 
she cried, “give them some good food and a 
nice bottle of wine.” 

“That 1 will,” cried Jacintha, changing her 


134 


WHITE LIES. 


tone, with couvticr-likc alacrity. “1 did not 
see she w'as nursing.” 

Josephine put a franc into the infant’s hand : 
the little fingers closed on it with that instinct 
of appropriation, which is our first, and often 
our last sentiment. Josephine smiled lovingly 
on the child, and the child seeing that gave a 
small crow. 

“Bless it,” said Josephine, and thereupon her 
lovely head reared itself like a crested snake’s, 
and then darted down on the child: and the 
young noble kissed the beggar’s brat as if she 
would eat it. 

This won the mother’s heart more than even 
the gifts. 

“Blessings on you, my lady,” she cried. “I 
pray the Lord not to forget this when a w'oman’s 
trouble comes on you in your turn ! It is a 
small child, mademoiselle, but it is not an un- 
healthy one. See.” Inspection was offered and 
eagerly accepted. 

Edouard stood looking on at some distance in 
amazement, mingled with disgust. 

“Ugh!” said he, when she rejoined him, 
“how could you kiss that nasty little brat ?” 

“ Dear Edouard, don’t speak so of a poor little 
innocent. Who would pity them if we women 
did not ? It had lovely eyes.” 

“ Like saucers !” 

“Yes.” 

“It is no compliment when you are affec- 
tionate to any body : you overflovv with benevo- 
lence on all creation ; like the rose which sheds 
its perfume on the first comer.” 

If he is not going to be jealous of me next!” 
whined Josephine. 

She took him to Laure, and she said : ‘ ‘ There, 
whenever good friends quarrel, it is understood 
they were both in the wrong. By-gones are to 
be by-gones, and, when your time comes round 
to quarrel again, please consult me first, since 
it is me you will afflict.” 

She left them together and went and tapped 
timidly at the doctor’s study. 

Monsieur St. Aubin received her with none of 
that coldness she had seen in him. He appear- 
ed both surprised and pleased at her visit to his 
little sanctum. He even showed an emotion 
Josephine was at a loss to account for. But 
that wore off’ during the conversation. 

“Dear friend,” said she, “I come to consult 
you about Laure and Edouard.” 

She then told him what had happened, and 
hinted at Edouard’s one fault. 

The doctor smiled. 

“It is curious,” said he. “You have come 
to draw my attention to a point on w’hich it has I 
been fixed for some days past. 1 am preparing 
a cure for the two young fools : a severe remedy, 
but in their case a sure one.” 

He then showed her a deed, wherein he had set- 
tled sixty thousand francs on Laure and her 
children. 

“Edouard has a good place. He is active 
and rising, and with my sixty thousand francs, 
and a little purse of ten thousand more for fur- 
niture and nonsense, they can marry next week , 
if they like. Yes, marriage is a medicine which 
acts differently on good men and good women. 
She does not love liim quite enough. Cure — 
marriage. He loves her a little too much. Cure 
— marriage 1 ” i 


“ Oh, doctor !” 

“ Can’t help it. I did not make men and 
w'omen. We must take human nature as we 
find it, and thank God for it on the whole. Have 
you nothing else to confide to me, my dear?” 

“ No, doctor.” 

“ Are you sure, my child ?” 

“No, dear friend.” 

“Then there is only this thing in which I 
can co-operate with you ?” 

“But this is very near my heart,” faltered 
Josephine. 

The doctor sighed. He then said gently: 

“ They shall be happy : as happy as you wish 
them.” 

Meantime, in another room, a reconciliation 
scene was taking place, and the mutual conces- 
sions of two impetuous, but generous spirits. 

The doctor’s generosity transpired in the house, 
and the wedding became an understood thing. 
All Laure asked for was to see more color in 
Josephine’s cheek. 

“I could not leave her as she is, and I will 
not.” 

“ Why leave her at all ?” said Edouard ; “we 
will have her and nurse her till my dear com- 
mandant comes back to her.” 

The baroness’s sight had failed considerably 
for some months past. But the change in Jose- 
phine’s appearance was too marked to escape 
her. 

She often asked Laure what could be the mat- 
ter. 

“Some passing ailment.” 

“ Passing ? She has been so, on and off, a long 
time.” 

“ The doctor is sure she will outgrow it.” 

“ Pray Heaven she may. She makes me very 
anxious.” 

Laure made light of it to her mother, but in 
her own heart she grew more and more anxious 
day by day. She held secret conferences with 
Jacintha ; that sagacious pereonage had a plan 
to wake Josephine from her deathly languor, 
and even soothe her nerves, and check those piti- 
able fits of nervous irritation to which she had 
become subject. Unfortunately Jacintha’s plan 
was so difficult and so dangerous that at first 
even the courageous Laure recoiled from it ; 
but there are dangers that seem to diminish 
when you look them long in the face. 

The whole party \vas seated in the tapestried 
room : Jacintha was there, sewing a pair of 
sheets, at a respectful distance from the gentle- 
folks, absorbed in her work ; but with both ears 
I on full cock. 

The doctor, holding his glasses to his eye, had 
just begun to read out the Moniteur. 

The baroness sat close to him ; Edouard, op- 
posite ; and the young ladies, each in her corner 
of a large luxurious sofa, at some little distance. 

“‘The Austrians left seventy cannon, eight 
thousand men, and three colors upon the field.’ 
Aha! 

“ ‘Army of the North. General Menard de- 
, feated the enemy after a severe engagement, 
taking thirteen field-pieces and a quantity of 
ammunition.’ The military news ought to be 
printed larger instead of smaller than the rest.” 

The Baroness. “ And there is never any thing 
1 in the Moniteur. 


WHITE LIES. 


St. Auhin. “The deuce there is not.” 

Baroness. “It is always the same thing: it 
is only the figures that vary. So, many cannon 
taken, so many .fortresses, and so many colors. 
There is never any thing about Egypt, the only 
thing that interests people.” 

St. Auhin. “ ‘ Army of the Rhine.’ If I was 
king, I would put down small type; it is the 
greatest foe knowledge has. ‘ A sanguinary en- 
gagement, — eight thousand of the enemy kill- 
ed and wounded. We have some losses to la- 
ment. The Colonel Dujardin — ’ ” 

Josephine. “ Ah ! ” 

Baroness. “ Only wounded, I hope ?” 

St. Auhin. “ ‘ At the head of the 22d Brigade, 
made a brilliant eharge on tlie enemy’s flank, 
that is described in the general order as having 
decided the fate of the battle.’ Bravo, well 
done, Camille !” 

Baroness. “ How badly you do read, mon- 
sieur. I thought he was gone ; instead of that 
he has covered himself with glory ; but it is all 
our doing, is it not, young ladies? We saved 
his life.” 

St. Auhin. “We saved it among us, ma- 
dame.” 

Edouard. “ What is the matter, Laure ?” 

Laure. “Nothing : give me the salts, quick.” 

She only passed them, as it were, under her 
own nostrils ; then held them to Josephine, who 
was now observed to be trembling all over. Laure 
contrived to make it appear that this was mere 
sympathy on Josephine’s part. 

“Don’t be silly, girls,” cried the baroness, 
cheerfully ; “ there is nobody killed that we care 
about.” 

.Tacintha. “If you please, monsieur, is there 
any thing about Dard ?” 

St. Auhin. “There won’t be any thing about 
him, till he is knocked on the head.” 

Jacintha. “Then I don’t want to hear any 
thing about him at all.” 

At this very moment, the new seiwant, Fan- 
chette, whom the baroness had hired, to Jacin- 
tha’s infinite disgust, brought in the long expect- 
ed letter from Egypt. 

Baroness. “Here is something better than 
salts for you. It is a long letter, Josephine, and 
all in his own hand. So he is safe, thank Heav- 
en ! I was beginning to be uneasy again. You 
frightened me for that poor Camille ; but this 
is worth a dozen Camilles. This is my son : I 
would give my old life for him. 

“ ‘My dear mother’ (bless him !), ‘ my dear 
wife, and my dear sister’ (well, you sit there like 
two rocks! !) — ‘We have just gained a battle, 
— fifty colors.’ (What do you think of that?) 
‘All the enemy’s baggage and ammunition are 
in our hands.’ (This is something like a battle, 
this one). ‘ Also the Pacha of Natolie.’ (Ah ! 
the Pacha of Natolie, — an important personage, 
no doubt, though I never had the honor of hear- 
ing of him. Do you hear ? — you on the sofa. 
My son has captured the Paeha of Natolie. He 
is as brave as Ctesar). ‘ But this success is not 
one of those that lead to important results,’ (never 
mind, a victory is a victory !), ‘and I think we 
shall be a long time in this confounded coun- 
try.’ ” 

Here a glance quick as lightning passed be- 
tween .Josephine and Laure. 

“ ‘ Have you news of your patient, my old ' 


1 0 ** 

OO 

companion in arms, Dujardin ? I spoke of him 
to Bonaparte the other day. A thorough soldier, 
that fellow.’ (So he is : and a charming young 
man.) Come here, Josephine.” She read to 
Josephine in a somewhat lower tone of voice: 
“ ‘ Tell my wife I love her more and more every 
day. I don’t expect as much from her, but slm 
will make me very happy if she can make shift 
to like me as well as her family do.’ No danger ! 
What husband deserves to be loved as he does ? 
I long for his return, that his wife, his mother, 
and his sister may all combine to teach this poor 
soldier what happiness means. We owe him 
every thing, Josephine, and if we did not love 
him, and make him happy, we should be mon- 
sters ; now should we not ?” 

Josephine. “ Yes.” 

'‘'■Now you may all of you read his letter. 
Jacintha and all,” said the baroness, graciously. 

The letter circulated. Meantime the baron- 
ess conversed with St. Auhin in quite an under- 
tone. 

“ My friend, look at that child !” 

“ What child ?” 

‘ ‘ J osephine. See how pale she is. I noticed 
it the moment she came near me.” 

‘ ‘ Her nerves are weak, and I frightened her.” 
“No! no! it is more than that. She has lost 
her appetite. She never laughs. She sighs. 
That girl is ill, or else she is going to be ill.” 

“Neither the one nor the other, madame,” 
said St. Aubin, looking her coolly in the face. 

“But I say she is. Is a doctor’s eye keener 
than a mother’s ?” 

“Considerably,” replied the doctor, with cool 
and enviable effrontery. 

The baroness rose. 

“Now, children, for our evening walk. We 
shall enjoy it now.” 

“ I trust you may : but for all that I must for- 
bid the evening air to one of the party, — to Ma- 
dame Raynal.” 

The baroness came to him and whispered : 
“That is right. Thank you. See what is 
the matter with her, and tell me.” And she car- 
ried off the rest of the party. 

At the same time Jacintha asked permission 
to pass the rest of the evening with her relations 
in the village. 

But why that swift, quivering glance of intel- 
ligence between Jacintha and Laure de Beaure- 
paire when the baroness said : “ Yes, certainly.” 
Josephine and the doctor were left alone. 
Josephine had noticed the old people whisper 
and her mother glance her way, and the whole 
woman was on her guard. She assumed a lan- 
guid complacency, and, by w'ay of shield, if ne- 
cessary, took some work, and bent her eyes and 
apparently her attention on it. 

The doctor was silent and ill at ease. 

She saw he had something weighty on his 
mind, and that it would come out unless she 
could divert it. A vague fear prompted her to 
avoid all weighty topics. So she said quietly : 
“The air would have done me no harm.” 

“ Neither will a few words with me.” 

“Oh no, dear friend. I think I should have 
liked a little walk this evening.” 

“ I played the tyrant. A Mend is sometimes 
a tyrant !” 

“I forgive you. My walk is not lost, since I 
gain a tete-a tke with you in exchange for it.” 


136 


WHITE LIES. 


The doctor took no notice of tliis somewhat 
hollow speech. There was another silence. A 
very long one. 

“ Josephine,” said the doctor, quietly, “ when 
you were a child I saved your life.” 

“ I have often heard my mother speak of it. 
I was choked by the croup, and you liad the 
courage to lance my windpipe.” 

“ Had I ?” said the doctor, with a smile. He 
added, gravely, “It seems then that to be cruel 
is sometimes kindness. Josephine, we love those 
whose life we have saved.” 

“And they love you.” 

“Since that day, Josephine, how many kind 
offices, how sweet and sacred an affection, be- 
tween us two. Many a father and daughter 
might have taken a lesson from us.” 

“ From you, my second father — not from me.” 

“Yet I have to reproach you or myself. • For 
after all these years I have ffiiled to inspire you 
with confidence.” The doctor’s voice was sad, 
and Josephine’s bosom panted. 

“ Pray do not say so,” she cried. “I would 
trust you with my life.” 

“But not, it seems, with your secret.” 

“My secret? What secret ? I have no se- 
crets.” 

“ Josephine, you have now for full twelve 
months suffered in body and mind ; yet you have 
never come to me for counsel, for comfort, for an 
old man’s experience and advice, or even for 
medical aid.” 

“But, dear friend, I assure you — ” 

“ We do not deceive our friend. We can not 
deceive our doctor.” 

Josephine trembled, but women are not to be 
drawn as men are. She fought every inch of 
ground after the manner of her sex. “ Dear 
doctor,” said she, “ I love you all the better for 
this. Your regard for me has for once blinded 
your science. I am not so robust as you have 
known me, but there is nothing serious the mat- 
ter with me. Let us talk of something else. 
Besides, it is not interesting to talk about one’s 
self.” 

“ Very \vell, since there is nothing serious or 
interesting in your case, we will talk about some- 
thing that is both serious and interesting.” 

“ With all my heart and she smiled content 
at averting criticism from herself. 

“We will talk about your child !” 

The work dropped from Josephine’s hands ; 
she turned her face wildly on St. Aubin, and 
with terrified eyes fixed on him, faltered out : 

“ M — my child ?” 

“My words are plain,” replied he, gravely. 
“ Your child !” 

■ ' 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Hlen n'est certain que Vimprevu, 

“Our success leads to no great results, and I 
fear we shall be a long time in this confounded 
country.” So wrote Raynal. 

Forty-eight hours after he was sailing France- 
ward with General Bonaparte. That great man 
dropped Egypt suddenly, very suddenly to those 
who confound the date of an act with the date 
of the secret determination that has ])rcccded it 
who knows how long ? He dropped Egypt, not. 


as his small critics fancy, because France and he 
could not have contrived to hold a corner of 
Egypt to this day, but because he had discovered 
he could not make of little Egypt the great step- 
ping-stone he had intended. 

Take this clue to Napoleon I. 

The ends of ordinary geniuses were his means. 

Their goals his stepping-stones. 

Goes he to Egyi)t, be sure he goes for Syria 
and Assyria, at least. 

If Moscow — little city of huts — thinks he w’ont 
to Moscow for Moscow, it pays itself too great a 
compliment, and him too small a one. He went 
to Moscow for Delhi and Canton. 

And when I think of this trait in him, with all 
its mental consequences, I come by my art, with 
regret, to the conclusion, that Napoleon I. was 
at no period of his career a happy man, nor, 
with his gigantic estimate of success, what ho 
w'ould call a very successful man ; nor much 
gratified by the successes that dazzled all the rest 
of the world. 

In the magnitude of his view's Napoleon will 
stand alone among the sons of earth till the last 
trumpet. But one trait he shared with ever\’ 
successful genius, whether of the sw'ord, the pen, 
or the brush. Unsuccessful geniuses waste them- 
selves. Successful geniuses lay themselves out to 
advantage : ay, economize themselves, — some by 
calculation, the rest by instinct. Napoleon was 
too practical to waste Napoleon long on Egypt. 
He did not give up the little country of the great 
pyramids in despair: he flung it up by calcula- 
tion. The globe offered greater prizes, — and the 
globe was his province. 

He came swiftly back to Paris, and Raynal, 
W'ho W'as on his staff, came with him, but not to 
stay. He was to go off, w'ithout a day’s delay, 
to the Rhine with dispatches and a command as 
brigadier in that army. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“Your child !” 

When the doctor repeated these words, when 
Josephine, looking in his face, saw he spoke from 
knowledge, however acquired, and not from 
guess, she glided dow'n slowly off the sofa, and 
clasped his knees as he stood before her, and hid 
her face in an agony of shame and terror on his 
knees. In this attitude they w'ere surprised by 
Laure, who had slipped back (on a pretense of 
forgetting her gloves) to see what St. Aubin had 
to say to Josephine. 

Laure opened the door softly. She did not 
arrive soon enough to hear the terrible words; 
bnt she saw her sister trembling at the doctor’s 
knees, and she herself stood white and panting. 
“ What could it mean ?” 

“ Forgive me!” cried Josephine, in a choking 
voice,— “ forgive me ! Oh, i>ray do not cxiiose 
me ! Do not destroy me !” 

Laure low'ered her head and darted behind a 
large screen that stood in the room, unseen either 
by the doctor, Avhose back was turned to her, or 
by her sister, w-ho w'as hiding her eyes against the 
doctor’s knees. 

The doctor raised Madame Raynal against her 
will. She was so ashamed she could not bear 
him to sec her face. But he made her sit, and 


WHITE LIES. 


137 


held one of her hands, and soothed her terror, 
while she turned from him and hid her faee on 
her hand, and her hand on a corner of the couch. 

“ Shall I ever expose or wound you, foolish 
one? This is to keep you from exposing and 
destroying yourself. Unhappy child, did you 
think you had deceived me, or that you are fit 
to deceive any but the blind? Your face, your 
anguish after Colonel Diijardin’s departure, — 
your languor, and then your sudden robustness, 
your appetite, your caprices, your strange sojourn 
at Frejus, your changed looks, and loss of health 
on your return ? Josephine, your old friend has 
passed many an hour thinking of you, divining 
your folly, following your trouble step by step, 
not invited to aid you, incapable of betraying 
you.” 

As he concluded these words, Laure came 
running towards him with te.arful eyes, and flung 
both her arms round his neck. 

“ Ah, my poor child !” said he ; “ this is not a 
secret for one of your age to know !” 

“Josephine did not tell me,” was the prompt 
answer. 

“ Strange that nobody should think me a prop- 
er person to be trusted !” said the doctor. 

“ Dear doctor ! if I had respected you less, I 
could have borne to confess to you.” 

“No, no ! you feared me. You had no cause. 
You did not trust me. You had every reason to. 

I will show you I was not quite unworthy of the 
confidence you denied me. First, I was worthy 
of it, because I never lost my confidence in you, 
Josephine. Here were all the signs of an illicit 
attachment. Well, what did I say? I said, I 
know my Josephine. I went to the mairie at 
Frejus upon a very different pretense. I got a 
sight of the books, and in a minute I found Ca- 
mille’s name and yours. Such was my confi- 
dence in you, who had none in me. I said there 
must have been a marriage of some sort.” 

The doctor looked round, triumphant in his 
own sagacity. Alas ! he missed the merited ap- 
plause. Josephine looked in his face, puzzled. 

“Dear friend,” said she, hesitating, “ I do 
not quite understand 3'ou. I know your sagacity, 
but since you had discovered I was a — a — moth- 
er, of course j'ou know I must be a wife. How 
could I be a mother, you know, unless I was a 
wife first ?” 

The doctor wmre a look half satirical, half 
tender: he took a pinch of snuff. “That is 
very true,” said he, mighty dryly. “ Well, I re- 
voke my claim to intelligence on that score. 
Let us try again. Mivart sent you some sooth- 
ing draughts after my visit to Frejus, — magical 
ones, eh? I prescribed them.” 

“Is it possible? dearest, best of friends, — 
ah ! I have been very culpable towards you.” 

“ Try again : a fortnight ago, I was absent two 
days. ” 

“Yes! and you never told us where you had 
been.” 

“I was at Frejus: that virulent disease the 
small-pox was there.” 

“ O Heaven I” and Josephine clasped her 
hands in terror. 

“ The danger is past. I heard of it. Instant- 
ly I got some vaccine from Paris, and I went j 
over to Frejus, for I said to myself — ” | 

The doctor never said it to any body but him- 
self : for ere he concluded his sentence he was 


almost stifled with embraces and kisses by the 
young mother. In the midst of which she end- 
ed his sentence for him. 

“ You said : ‘ I saved Josephine’s life I will 
save her boy.’ ” 

“We are beginning to understand one anoth- 
er,” said the doctor, with a strong tendency to 
whimper, for which he took a pinch of snuff as 
antidote. “Now, dears, I will tell you what I 
have divined, and you shall tell me the rest, and 
then we will act in concert. The news came of 
Raynal’s death. You thought yourself free, that 
I understand. But why marry so soon, and why 
not marry openly?” 

Said Laure hastily : 

“It was all his fault.” 

“ Whose ?” 

“No ! no !” said Josephine. “ It was not his 
fault, — ah ! do not throw the blame on the ab- 
sent and the unhappy.” 

“I am not going to blame him much. He 
was a man, and required what I believe all young 
men do, — that she should sacrifice every feeling 
to him. He said, if you love me you will marry 
me before the priest, and erase from our minds 
that other marriage. She refused.” 

“ Say, rather, I hesitated.” 

“ Well, she declined : then he reproached 
her!” 

“Never! doctor, dear doctor, Camille never 
reproached me : he only pined away and doubt- 
ed my love. My resolution failed : I wanted to 
make every body happy : I volunteered to marry 
him secretly, not to give m\' mother pain.” 

“She volunteered !” cried Laure impatienth*. 
“ It was I who forced that fatal measure on her : 
I alone am to blame : it is she alone who suf- 
fers.” 

' “ Oh, concealment ! — concealment !” cried the 

doctor. “But you arc punished more than you 
deserve. I understand it all too well ! v’our 
story is but the story of your sex, — self-sacrifice. 
I dare say you sacrificed your heart to your moth- 
er in marrying Colonel Raynal.” 

“ She did ! — she did !” 

“Then you sacrificed every feeling but pity to 
your lover. And now you will sacrifice every 
thing to your husband.” 

“ He is well worthy of any sacrifice I can 
make,” said Josephine ; “ but, oh, sir, ifyou knew 
how hard it is to me to live !” 

“I hope to make it less hard to you ere long,” 
said the doctor, quietly. He then congratulated 
himself on having forced Josephine to confide 
in him. “For,” said he, “ you never needed an 
experienced friend more than at this moment. 
Your mother will not always be so blind as of 
late. Edouard is suspicious. Jacintha is a 
shrewd young w'oman, and very inquisitive.” 

Here the jmung ladies interchanged a look, 
but were ashamed to own they had taken Jacin- 
tha into their confidence. 

“ I do not dwell much on the terrible event 
of Raynal’s immediate return : to-day’s letter 
renders that improbable. But improbable is not 
impossible; and where all is possible, and all is 
danger, the severest caution is necessary : first, 
then, what arc your own plans ?” 

“/ don’t know,” said Josephine, helplessly. 

I “ You —don’t — know !” cried the doctor, look- 

ing at her in utter amazement. 

! “It is the answer of a madwoman, is it not? 


138 


WHITE LIES. 


Doctor, I am little better. My foot has slipped 
on the edf^e of a precipice. I close my eyes, and 
let myself glide down it. What will become of 
me ?” 

“ All shall be well if you do not still love that 
man.” 

“I shall love him to my last breath. How 
can I help loving him ? He had loved me four 
years. I was his betrothed. I wronged him in 
my thoughts. War, prison, anguish, could not 
kill him, he loved me so. He struggled bleeding 
to my feet, and could I let him die, after all? 
Could I be crueller than prison and torture and 
despair ?” 

The doctor sighed deeply ; but, arming him- 
self with the necessary resolution, he said sternly : 

“Josephine, a woman of your name can not 
vacillate between love and honor ; such vacilla- 
tions have but one end. I will not let you drift 
a moral wreck between passion and virtue ; and 
that will be your lot if you hesitate now.” 

“ Hesitate ! Who dares to say I have hesita- 
ted where my honor is concerned ? You can 
read our bodies then, but not our hearts. What ! 
you see me sc pale, forlorn, and dead, and that 
does not tell you 1 have bid Camille farewell 
forever?” 

“ Is it possible ? Give me your hand, — it was 
well and wisely and nobly done. And, who 
knowe ? kindly too, perhaps.” 

Josephine continued : 

“ That we might be safer still, I have not even 
told him he is a father : was woman ever so cruel 
ns I am ? I have written him but one letter ; 
and in that I must deceive him. I told him I 
thought I might one day be happy, if I could 
hear that he did not give way to despair ; 1 told 
him we must never meet again in this world. 
So now dispose of me. Show me my duty, and 
1 will do it. This falsehood wrings my heart ; 
shall I tell my husband the truth ?” 

“ Oh no ! no !” cried Laure, “ do not let her. 
Colonel Raynal would kill her.” 

“If I thought that, nothing should stop me 
from telling him.” 

The doctor objected. 

“ What, tell him, while he is in Egypt ? while 
his return alive is uncertain ? needless cruelty 1” 

“And then my mother!” sighed Josephine, 
'“my poor mother! She would hear it, and it 
would break her heart ! 1 should wound her to 

death : and I love her so. I always loved her : 
but not as 1 do since — Now that I know what 
she has suffered for me, my very heart yearns at 
sight of her dear face. I must lose her one day, 
I know : but if my misconduct were to hasten 
that day — oh ! it is too horrible. This is my 
hope : that poor Raynal will be long absent, and 
that, ere he returns, mamma will lie safe from 
sorrow and shame in the little chapel. Doctor, 
when a woman of my age forms such wdshes as 
these, I think you might pity her, and forgive 
her ill-treatment of you, for she can not be very 
happy. Ah me ! ah me ! ah me !” 

“ Courage ! poor soul ! All is now in my 
hands : and I will save you,” said the doctor, 
his voice trembling in spite of him. “ Sin lies 
in the intention. A more innocent woman than 
you does not breathe. TVo courses lay open to 
you, — to leave this house with Camille Dujardin, 
or to dismiss him, and live for your hard duty 
till it shall please Heaven to make that duty 


easy (no middle course was tenable for a day) ; 
of these two paths you chose the right one, and, 
having chosen, you are not called on to reveal 
your misfortune, and make those unhappy to 
whose happiness you have sacrificed your own 
for years to come.” 

“Forever!” said Josephine, quietly. 

St. Auhin. “ The young use that word lightly. 
The old have almost ceased to use it. They 
have seen how few earthly things can conquer 
time.” 

He resumed : 

“You think only of others, Josephine, but I 
shall think of you as well. I shall not allow 
your life to be wasted in a needless struggle 
against nature.” 

Laure looked puzzled : so the doctor explain- 
ed. Her griefs were as many before her child 
was born, yet her health stood firm. Why ? be- 
cause nature was on her side. Now she is sink- 
ing into the grave. Why? because she is defy- 
ing natui'e. Nature intended her to be pressing 
her child to her bosom day and night : instead 
j of that, a peasant-woman at Frejus nurses the 
1 child, and the mother pines at Beaurepaire. 

Through all this Josephine leaned her face on 
her hands, and her hands on the doctor’s shoul- 
der. In this attitude she murmured to him : 

“ I have only seen him once since I came from 
Frejus.” 

“ Poor thing !” 

“ Since you permit it, I will go there to-mor- 
row.” 

“You will do nothing of the kind. A sec- 
ond journey thither, when the first has awaken- 
ed Edouai’d’s suspicions? I forbid it.” 

Josephine was seized with one of her fits of 
irritation. 

“Take care,” cried she, pecking round at 
the doctor like an irritated pigeon, “don’t be 
too cruel to me. You see I am obedient, resign- 
ed. I have given up all I lived for : but if I am 
never to have my boy’s little arms round me to 
console me, there — why torment me any longer? 
Why not say to me, ‘Josephine, you have of- 
fended Heaven : pray for pardon and die?’ ” 

“ I mean you to spend, not hours, but months, 
beside vour child,” said the doctor. 

“Oh!” 

“Through him I mean to save your life, so 
' precious to us all. That little helpless soul is 
I your guardian angel, he is for some time to 
j come your one fount of hope and consolation, 
j But it is not at Frejus you shall meet, not in a 
; ehattering village within a ride of Eiiouard, but 
in that great city where nobody knows or cares 
what goes on next door.” 

“ In Paris !” cried Laure. 

“ Certainly : I shall go there to-morrow the 
first thing. I shall take a house where I can 
receive you both ; and outside the barrier, where 
I the air is purest, Madame Jouvenel and her niirs- 
I ling shall live on the fat of the land, and you 
I shall spend the days with them. After all, my 
^ nephew was not such a fool as they say. He 
i divined what good uses some of his money would 
’ be put to by his ancestor.” 

I Josephine’s delight and gratitude were somc- 
j what dashed when the doctor told her all -this 
! would take three weeks, and that he would not 
I go to Paris unless she now promised him on her 
1 honor not to go to Frejus in his absence. 


WHITE LIES. 139 


She hesitated. 

Promise, dear,” said Laurc, with an intona- 
tion so fine that it attracted Josephine’s notice, 
but not the doctor’s. It was followed by a glance 
equally subtle. 

“I promise,” said Josephine, with her eye 
fixed inquiringly on her sister. 

For once she could not make the telegraph 
out ; but she could see it was playing, and that 
was enough. She did what Laure bid her. 

“I promise. Ah! — forgive me.” 

“ Forgive you ? what for ?” 

“I sighed. It was ungrateful.” 

“ I forgive you, black-hearted creature,” said 
the doctor, “ but only upon conditions. You 
must keep your word about Frejus, and you must 
also promise me not to go kissing every child you 
see. Edouard tells me he saw you kissing a beg- 
gars brat. The young rogue was going to quiz 
you about it at the dinner-table : luckily, he told 
me his intention, and I would not let him. I 
said the baroness would be annoyed with you for 
descending from your dignity, — and exposing a 
noble family to fleas, — hush! here he is.” 

“ Tiresome !” muttered Laure, just when Ed- 
ouard came forward with a half-vexed face. 

However, he turned it off in play. 

“ Won’t the doctor give you your gloves ?” 

“ Scold him rather for interesting me so : for 
it is he who has detained me.” 

“What have you been saying to her, mon- 
sieur, to interest her so ! Give me a leaf out 
of your book. I need it.” 

The doctor was taken aback for a moment, but 
at last he said, slyly : 

“ I told her nothing that will not interest her 
as much from your lips. I have been proposing 
to her to name the day. She says she must con- 
sult you before she decides that.” 

“Oh, yon wicked doctor! — and consult /nm, 
of all people !” 

St. Auhin. “ So^be off, both of you, and don’t 
re-appear till it is settled.” 

Edouard. “ Come, mademoiselle, you and I 
are de trop here.” 

Edouard’s eyes sparkled. Laure went out 
with a face as red as fire. 

It was a balmy evening. Edouard was to leave 
them for a week the next day. They were alone : 
Laure was determined he should go away quite 
happy. Every thing was in Edouard’s favor : he 
pleaded his cause warmly : she listened tender- 
ly : this happy evening her piquancy and arch- 
ness seemed to dissolve with tenderness as slie 
and Edouard walked hand in hand under the 
moon : a tenderness all the more heavenly to her 
devoted lover, that she was not one of those an- 
gels that cloy a man by invariable sweetness. 

For a little while she forgot every thing but 
her companion. In that soft hour he Avon her 
to name the day. 

“Josephine goes to Paris with the doctor in 
about three Aveeks,” murmured she. 

“And you Avill stay behind, all alone?” 

“Alone? that shall depend on you, mon- 
sieur ! ” 

On this Edouard caught her for the first time 
in his arms. 

She made but a faint resistance. 

“ Seal me that promise, SAveet one!” 

“No! no! — there!” 

He pressed a delicious first kiss upon tAvo vel- 


vet lips, that in their innocence scarcely shunned 
the sweet attack. 

For all that, the bond was no sooner sealed af- 
ter this fashion, than the lady’s cheek began to 
burn. 

She had been taken by surprise. 

“ Suppose we go in now?’' said, she dryly. 

“ Ah ! not yet.” 

“It is late, dear Edouard.” 

And Avith these Avords something returned to 
her mind Avith its full force, — something that 
Edouard had actually made her forget for more 
than an hour. How should she get rid of him 
now without hurting his feelings ? 

“ Edouard,” said she, “ can you get up early 
in the morning? If you can, meet me here to- 
morroAv before any of them are up : then Ave can 
talk without interruption.” 

pdonard Avas delighted. 

“ Eight o’clock ?” 

“ Sooner if you like. Mamma bade me come 
and read to her in her room to-night. She will 
be Avaiting for me. Is it not tiresome ?” 

“ Yes, it is.” 

“Well, Ave must not mind, dear; in three 
Aveeks’ time Ave are to have too much of one an- 
other, you knoAA', instead of too little.” 

“ Too much ! I shall never have enough of 
you. I shall hate the night Avhich Avill rob me 
of the sight- of you for so many hours in the 
tAA^enty-four.” 

“ If you can’t see me, perhaps you may hear 
me : my Tongue runs by night as avcII as by day.” 

“Well! that is a comfort,’’ said Edouard, 
graA'ely. “ Yes, little quizzer, I Avould rather 
hear you scold than an angel sing. Judge, then, 
Avhat music it is when you say you love me !” 

“I love you, Edouard.” 

Edouard kissed her hand Avarmly, and then 
looked at her face. 

“ No ! no !” said she, laughing and blushing. 
“ Don’t be rude. Next time Ave meet.” 

“ That is a bargain. But I Avon’t go till you 
say you love me again.” 

Edouard, don’t be silly. 1 am ashamed of 
saying the same thing so often, — I won’t say it 
any more. What is the use ? You know I loA'e 
you. There, I have said it! hoAv sttipid !” 

“ Adieu, then, my Avife that is to be.” 

“Adieu? dear Edouard.” 

“ My hus — Go on, — my hus — ” 

“ — band that shall be.” 

Tlien they Avalked very sloAvly tOAA’ards the 
house, and once more Laura left quizzing, and 
AA'as all tenderness. 

“ Will you not come in, and bid them ‘ good- 
night?’ ” 

“No, my OAA’ii. I am in lieaA'en. Common 
faces, common voices, AA^ould bring me doAvn to 
earth. Let me be alone! — your SAveet Avords 
ringing in my ear. I aaIU dilute you Avith noth- 
ing meaner than the stars. See hoAV bright they 
shine in heaA'en : but not so bright as you shine 
in my heart.” 

“bear Edouard, you flatter me, you spoil me. 
Alas ! Avhy am I not more Avorthy your love ?” 

“More Avorthy ! Hoav can that be ?” 

Laure sighed. 

“ But I Avill atone for all. I Avill make you a 
better — (here she substituted a full stop for a sul)- 
stantive) — than you expect. Y’’ou Avill see else.” 


140 


WHITE LIES. 


She lingered at the door ; a proof that if Edou- 
ard, at that particular moment, had seized an- 
other kiss, there would have been no very violent 
opposition or offense. 

But he was not so impudent as some. He had 
been told to wait till next meeting for that, 
lie prayed Heaven to bless her, and so the affi- 
anced lovers parted for the night. 

It was about nine o’clock. Edouard, instead 
of returning to his lodgings, started down to- 
M-ards the town, to conclude a bargain with the 
inn-keeper for an English mare he was in treaty 
for. He wanted her for to-morrow’s work ; so 
that decided him to make the purchase. In pur- 
chases, as in other matters, a feather turns the 
balanced scale. He sauntered leisurely down. 
It was a very clear night : the full moon and 
the stars shining silvery and vivid. Edouard’s 
heart swelled with joy. He was loved, after all, 
deeply loved ; and in three short weeks he was 
actually to be Laure’s husband : her lord and 
master. How like a heavenl}^ dream it all seem- 
ed, — the first hopeless courtship, and now the 
wedding fixed ! But it w’as no dream : he felt 
her soft words still murmur music at his heart, 
and the shadow of her velvet lips slept upon his 
own. 

He had strolled about a league when he heard 
the ring of a horse’s hoofs coming towards him, 
accompanied by a clanking noise ; it came near- 
er and nearer, till it reached a hill that lay a lit- 
tle ahead of Edouard : then the sounds ceased : 
the Cavalier was walking his horse up the hill. 

Presently, as if they had started from the earth, 
up popped between Edouard and the sky first a 
cocked hat that seemed, in that light, to be cut 
with a razor out of flint, then the wearer, phos- 
phorescent here and there ; so brightly the keen 
moonlight played on his epaulettes, and steel scab- 
bard. 

A step or two nearer, and Edouard gave a 
great shout ; it was Colonel Baynal. 

After the first warm greeting, and questions 
and answers, Raynal told him he was on his way 
to the Rhine with dispatches. 

“To the Rhine?” 

Raynal laughed. 

“I am allowed six days to get there. I made 
a calculation, and found I could give Beaure- 
paire half a day. I shall have to make up for 
it by hard riding. You know me. Always in a 
hurry. It is Bonaparte’s fault this time. He is 
another that is alw.ays in a hurry.” 

“ Why, colonel,” said Edouard, “ let us make 
haste then. Mind they go early to rest at the 
chateau.” 

“ But you are not coming my way, young- 
ster ?” 

“Not coming your way? Yes, but I am. 
Yours is a face I don’t see every day, colonel ; 
besides, I would not miss their faces, especially 
the baroness’s and Madame Raynal’s, at sight of 
you: and, besides” — and the young gentleman 
chuckled to himself, and thought — “the next 
time we meet : well, this will be the next time. 
May I jump up behind ?” 

Colonel Raynal nodded assent ; Edouard took 
a run, and lighted like a monkey on the horse’s 
crupper. He pranced and kicked at this unex- 
I)ccted addition ; but, the spur being promptly aj)- 
})lied to his flanks, he bounded oft' with a snort 
that betrayed more astonishment than satisfac- 


tion, and away they cantered to Beaurepaire 
without drawing rein. 

“There,” said Edouard, “I was afraid they 
would be gone to bed ; and they are. The very 
house seems asleep — fancy — at half-past ten.” 

“ That is a pity,” said Raynal, “ for this cha- 
teau is the stronghold of etiquette. They will be 
two hours dressing before they can come out and 
shake hands. I must put my horse into the sta- 
ble. Go you and give the alarm.” 

“ I will, colonel. Stop, first let me see whetli- 
er none of them are up, after all.” 

And Edouard walked around the chateau, and 
soon discovered a light at one windo\^s — the win- 
dow of the tapestried room. Running round the 
other way, he came slap upon another light : this 
one was nearer the ground. A narrow but mass- 
sive door, which he had always seen, not only 
locked, but screwed up, was wide open ; and 
through the aperture the light of a candle stream- 
ed out, and met the moonlight streaming in. 

“ Hallo !” cried Edouard. 

He stopped, turned, and looked in. 

“Hallo 1’^ he cried again, much louder. 

A young woman was sleeping with her feet in 
the silvery moonlight, and her head in the or- 
ange-colored blaze of a flat candle, which rested 
on the next step above of a fine stone stair-case, 
whose existence was now first revealed to the in- 
quisitive Edouard. 

Coming plump upon all this so unexpectedly, 
he quite started. 

“ Why, Jacintha !” 

He touched her on the shoulder to wake her. 
No. Jacintha was sleeping as only tired domes- 
tics can sleep. He might have taken the candle 
and burnt her gown off her back. She had found 
a step that fitted into the small of her back, and 
another that supported her head, and there she 
was fast as the door. 

At this moment Raynal’s voice was heard : 

“ Are you there ?” 

Edouard went to him. 

“There is a light in that bedroom.” 

“It is not a bedroom, colonel : it is our sit- 
ting-room now. We shall find them all there, 
or at least the young ladies, and perhaps the doc- 
tor. The baroness goes to bed early. Mean- 
time I can show you one of our drainaiis personee, 
and an important one too. She rules the roast.’’ 

He took him mysteriously and showed him 
Jacintha. 

“Hallo!” cried Raynal. “She can’t have 
much on her conscience.” 

Moonlight by itself seems white, and candle- 
light by itself seems yellow ; but when the two 
come into close contrast at night, candle turns a 
bloody flame, and moonlight a bluish gleam. 

So Jacintha, with her shoes in this celestial 
sheen, and her face in that demoniacal glare, was 
enough to knock the gazer’s eye out. 

“Make a good sentinel, — this one,” said Ray- 
nal,— “ an outlying picket for instance, on rough 
ground, in front of the enemy’s riflemen.” 

“Ha! ha! colonel. Let us see where this 
staircase leads. I have an idea it will prove a 
short cut.” 

“Where to?” 

‘ ‘ To the saloon, or somewhere, or else to some 
of Jacintha’s haunts. Serve her right forgoing 
to sleep at the mouth of her den.” 

‘ ‘ Forward then, — no, halt ! Suppose it leads 


WHITE LIES. 


to the bedrooms ! mind tliis, a thundering place 
for ceremony. AVe shall get drummed out of 
the barracks if we don’t mind our etiquette.” 

While they hesitated, a soft, delicious harmo- 
ny of female voices suddenly rose, and seemed 
to come and run round the walls. The men look- 
ed at one another in astonishment ; for the ef- 
fect was magical. The staircase being inclosed 
on all sides with stone walls and floored with 
stone, they tvere like flies inside a violoncello ; 
the voices rang above, below, and on every side 
of the vibrating walls. In some epochs spirits 
as hardy as Raynal’s, and wits as quick as liiv- 
icre’s, w'ould have fled then and there to the 
nearest public, and told over cups how they had 
heard the dames of Beaurepaire long since dead 
holding their revel, and the conscious old devil’s 
nest of a chateau quivering to the ghostly strains. 

But this was an incredulous age. They lis- 
tened, and listened, and decided the sound came 
from up-stairs. 

“Let us mount, and surprise these singing 
witches,” said Edouard. 

“Surprise them : what for ? It is not the en- 
emy, — for once. AVhat is the good of surprising 
our friends ?” Storming-parties and surprises 
were no novelty and therefore no treat to Eaynal. 

“It will be so delightful to sec their faces at first 
sight of you. Oh, colonel, for my sake! Don’t 
spoil it all by going tamely in at the front door, 
after coming at night from Egypt for half an 
hour.” 

• “Half a day. It is a childish trick! Well, 
show a light, or we shall surprise ourselves wdth 
a broken neck going over ground w’e don’t know 
to surprise the natives, — our skirmishers got 
nicked that way now and then in Egypt.” 

“Yes, colonel, I will go first wdth Jacintha’s 
candle.” 

Edouard mounted the stairs on tip-toe. Ray- 
nal followed. The solid stone steps did not prate. 
The men had mounted a considerable way when 
puff a blast of wdnd came through a hole, and 
out w’ent Edouard’s candle. lie turned sharply 
round to Raynal. ^^PesteT said he, in a vi- 
cious whisper. But the other laid his hand on 
his shoulder and wdiispered, “ Look to the front.” 
He looked, and, his own candle being out, saw 
a glimmer on ahead. He crept towards it. It 
w’as a taper shooting a feeble light across a small 
aperture. They caught a glimpse of what seem- 
ed to be a small apartment. Yet Edouard rec- 
ognized the carpet of the tapestried room, which 
was a very large room. Creeping a yard near- 
er, he discovered that it was the tapestried room, 
and that what had seemed the farther wall was 
only the screen, behind which were lights, and 
Josephine and Laure singing a duet. 

He whispered to Raynal : “ It is the tapestried 
room.” 

“ Is it a sitting room?” wliispered Kaynal. 

‘‘ Yes ! yes ! Mind and not knock your foot against the 
wood.” 

‘‘ What, am I to go first now ?” 

” Of conrse.” 

“Why?” 

“ You are the one from Egypt.” 

“ Forward, then.” 

Raynal went softly up and put his foot quietly 
through the aperture, which he now saw was 
made by a panel drawn back close to the ground, 
and stood in the tapestried chamber. The car- _ 


141 

pet was thick; the ladies’ voices favored the 
stealthy advance ; the floor of the old house was 
like a rock ; and Edouard put his face through 
the aperture, glowing all over with anticipation 
of the little scream of joy that would welcome his 
friend dropping in so nice and suddenly from 
Egypt. 

The feeling was rendered still more piquant 
by a sharp curiosity that had been growing on 
him for some minutes past. For why was this 
ptissage opened to-night?— he had never seen it 
opened before I And why was Jacintha lying 
sentinel at the foot of the stairs? 

But this was not all. Row that they were in 
the room both the men became conscious of anoth- 
er sound besides the women’s voices, — a very pe- 
culiar sound. It also came from behind the 
screen. They both heard it, and showed by the 
puzzled looks they cast at one another that nei- 
ther could make out what on earth it was. It 
consisted of a succession of little rustics, followed 
by little thumps on the floor. 

But what was curious, too, this rustle, thump, 
— rustle, thump, — rustle, thump, — fell exactly 
1 into the time of the music ; so that, clearly, 

I either the rustle thump was being plaj’cd to the 
j tune, or the tune sung to the rustle thump. 

I This last touch of mystery inflamed Edouard’s 
impatience beyond bearing; he pointed eagerly 
and merrily to the corner of the screen. Raynal 
obeyed, and stepped very slowly and cautiously 
towards it. 

Rustle, thump ! rustle, thump ! rustic, thump ! 
with the rhythm of harmonious voices. 

Edouard got his head and foot into the room 
without taking his eye off Raynal. 

Rustle, thump ! rustle, thump ! rustle, thump ! 

Raynal was now at the screen, and quietly put 
his head round it, and his hand upon it. 

Edouard bursting with expectation. 

No result. What is this ? Don’t they see 
him? Why does he not speak to them? He 
seems transfixed. 

Rustle, thump ! rustle, thump ! accompanied 
now for a few notes by one voice onl}% Laure ’s. 

Suddenly there burst a shriek from Josephine, 
so loud, so fearful, that it made even Raynal stag- 
ger back a step, the screen in his hand. 

Then another scream of terror and anguish 
from Laure. Then a fainter cry, and the heavy', 
helpless fall of a human body'. 

Raynal sprang forward, whirling the screen to 
the earth in terrible agitation, and Edouard 
bounded over it as it fell at his feet. He did 
not take a second step. 

The scene that caught his eye stujiefied and 
paralyzed him in full career, and froze him to the 
spot with amazement and strange misgivings. 

Laure parted from Edouard, and went in at 
the front door ; but the next moment she opened 
it softly and watched her lover unseen. 

“Dear Edouard !” she murmured : and then 
she thought, “ How sad it is that I must deceive 
him, even to-night: must make up an excuse to 
get him from me, when we were so happy to- 
gether. Ah ! he little knows how I shall wel- 
come our wedding-day'. AVhen once I can see 
my poor martyr on the road to peace and content 
under the good doctor’s care. And oh ! the 
hapi)iness of having no more secrets from him I 
love ! Dear Edouard ! when once we arc mar- 


142 


WHITE LIES. 


ried, I never, never will have a secret from you 
again, — I swear it!” 

As a comment on these w’orcls she now stepped 
cautiously out, and peered in every direction. 

“ St I — St !” she whispered. No answer came 
to this signal. 

Laure returned into the house and bolted the 
door inside. She went up to the tapestried room, 
and found the doctor in the act of wishing Jose- 
phine good-niglit. The baroness, fatigued a lit- 
tle by her walk, had mounted no higher than her 
own bedroom, which was on the first floor just 
under the tapestried room. Laure followed the 
doctor out. 

“Dear friend, one w'ord. Josephine talked 
of telling Raynal. You have not encouraged her 
to do that ?” 

“ Certainly not, while he is in Egypt.” 

“Still less on his return. Doctor, you don’t 
knovvT that man. Josephine does not know him. 
But I do. He would kill her if he knew. He 
would kill her that minute. He would not wait ; 
he would not listen to excuses : he is a man of 
iron. Or, if he spared her, he would kill Ca- 
mille : and that would destroy her by the cruel- 
lest of all deaths ! My friend, I am a wicked, 
miserable girl. I am the cause of all this mis- 
ery !” 

She then told St. Aubin all about the anony- 
mous letter, and what Raynal had said to her in 
consequence. 

“He never would have married her had he 
known she loved another. He asked me was it 
so. I told him a falsehood. At least I equivo- 
cated, and to equivocate with one so loyal and 
simple was to deceive him. I am the only sin- 
ner : that sweet angel is the only sufferer. Is 
this the justice of Heaven ? Doctor, my remorse 
is great. No one knows what I feel when I look 
at my work. Edouard thinks that I love her so 
much better than I do him. He is wrong : it is 
not love only, it is pity ; it is remorse for the sor- 
row I have brought on her, and the wrong 1 have 
done poor Raynal.” 

The high-spirited girl was greatly agitated ; 
and St. Aubin, though he did not acquit her of 
all blame, soothed her, and made excuses for her. 

“We must not alwaj^s judge by results,” said 
he. “Things turned unfortunately. You did 
for the best. I forgive you, for one. That is, I 
will forgive you, if you promise not to act again 
without my advice.” 

“Oh, never! never!” 

“And, above all, no imprudence about that 
child. In three little weeks they will be together i 
without risk of discovery. Well, you don’t an- 
swer me.” ’ i 

Laure’s blood turned cold. “Dear friend,’’ 
she stammered, “ I quite agree with you.” 

“ Promise, then.” 

“Not to let Josephine go to Frejus?” said 
Laure, hastily. “Oh yes! I promise.” 

“You arc a good child,” cried St. Aubin. 
“ You have a will of your own. But you can 
submit to age and experience.” I 

The doctor then kissed her, and bade her fare- 
well. ^ _ I 

“ I leave for Paris at six in the morning. I 
will not try your patience or hers unnecessarily, i 
Perhaps it will not be three weeks.” 

The moment Laure was alone she sat down 
and sighed bitterly. 


“There is no end to it,” she sobbed, despair- 
ingly. “Oh no! I shall never get clear of it. 
It is like' a spider’s web ; every struggle to be free 
but multiplies the fine but irresistible thread that 
seems to bind me. And to-night I thought to 
be so happy: instead of that, he has left me 
scarce the heart to do what I have to do.” 

She w'ent back to the room, opened a window 
and put out a white handkerchief : then closed 
the window down on it. 

Then she w'ent to Josephine’s bedroom door 
it opened on the tapestried room. 

“Josephine,” she cried, “don’t go to bed just 
yet.” 

“ No, love. What are you doing ?” 

“ Oh, nothing particular. I ivant to talk to 
you presently.” 

“ Shall I come out to you, Laure ?” 

“ No, stay where you are.” 

Laure sat down, and took a book. 

She could not read it. 

Then she took some work, and put it down. 
Then she went to a window ; not the one where 
she had left the handkerchief. She looked out 
upon the night. 

Then she walked restlessly up and down the 
room. 

Then she glided into the corridor, and passed 
her mother’s room and the doctor’s, and listened 
to see if all was quiet. While she was gone, Jo- 
sephine opened her door ; but, not seeing Laure 
in the sitting-room, retired again. 

Laure returned softly, and sat down with hot- 
head in her hand, in a calm attitude belied by 
her glancing eye and the quick tapping of her 
other hand upon the table. 

Presently she raised her head quickly ; a sound 
had reached her ear, a sound so slight that none 
but a high-strung ear could have caught it. It 
was like a mouse giving a single scratch against 
a stone wall. 

Laure coughed slightly. 

On this a clearer sound was heard, as of a per- 
son scratching wood with the fingcr-naik Laure 
darted to the side of ihe room, pressed against 
the wall, and at the same time put her other 
hand against the rim of one of the pannels and 
])ushed it laterally : it yielded, and at the open- 
ing stood Jacintha in her cloak and bonnet. 

“Yes,” said Jacintha, “under mv cloak — 
look !” 

“ Ah ! — you found the things on the steps?” 

“Yes! I nearly tumbled over them. Have 
you locked that door, mademoiselle?” 

“No ! but I will.” And Laure glided to the 
door and locked it. Then she put the screen up 
between Josephine’s room and the open panel : 
then she and Jaeintha were wonderfully busy on 
the other side the screen, but presently Laure 
said : 

“This is imprudent: you must go down to 
the foot of the stairs and wait till I call you.” 

Jacintha pleaded hard against this arrange- 
ment. 

“ What chance is there of any one coming 
there ?” 

“ No matter ! I will be guarded on every 
side.” 

“ Musn’t I stop and just see her happy for 
once?” 

“No! my poor Jacintha, you must hear it 
from my lips.” 


WHITE LIES. 


Jacintlia retired to keep watch as she was bid. 
Laure went to Josephine’s room, and threw her 
arms round her neck and kissed her vehemently. 
Josephine returned her embrace, then held her 
out at arm’s length and looked at her. 

“ Your eyes are red : yet your little face is full 
of joy. There, — you smile.” 

“ i have my reasons.” 

“ I am glad of it! — are you coming to bed?” 

“ Not yet. I invite you to take a little walk 
with me first. Come !” and she led the way 
slowly, looking back with infinite archness and 
tenderness. 

“You almost frighten me,” said Josephine; 
“it is not like you to be all joy when I am sad. 
Three whole weeks more.” 

“That is it! Why are you sad? Because 
the doctor would not let you go to Frejus. And 
why am I not sad? Because I had already 
thought of a way to let you see Edouard without 
going so far.” 

“ Oh, Laure ! oh, Laure ! oh, Laure !” 

“ This way, — come !” and she smiled and 
beckoned with her finger; while Josephine fol- 
lowed like one under a spell, her bosom heaving, 
her eye glancing on every side, hoping some 
strange joy, yet scarce daring to hope. 

Laure drew back the screen, and there was a 
sweet little berceau that had once been Joseph- 
ine’s own, and in it, sunk deep in snow-white 
lawn, was a sleeping child, that lay there looking 
as a rose might look could it fall upon new-fall- 
en snow. 

At sight of it Josephine uttered a little cry, 
not loud, but deep, — ay, a cry to bring tears into 
the eye of the hearer, and she stood trembling 
from head to foot, her hands clasped, and her eye 
fascinated and fixed on the cradle. 

“ My child under this roof ! What have you 
done ?” but her eye, fascinated and fixed, never 
left the cradle. 

“I saw you languishing, dying, for want of 
him.” 

“ Oh ! if any body should come ?” but her eye 
never stirred an inch from the cradle. 

“ No ! no ! no ! the door is locked. Jacintha 
watches below, there is no dan — Ah ! at last ! 
ah ! poor woman !” 

For, as Laure was speaking, the young moth- 
er sprang silently upon her child. You would 
have thought she was going to kill him ! her 
head reared itself again and again like a crested 
snake’s, and again and again, and again and 
again, plunged down upon the child, and she 
kissed his little body from head to foot with soft 
violence, and murmured, through her starting 
tears, “My child! my darling! my angel! oh, 
my poor boy ! my child I my child !” 

I will ask my female readers of every degree 
to tell their brothers and husbands all the young 
noble did. How she sat on the floor, and had 
her child on her bosom ; how she smiled over it 
through her tears ; how she purred over it ; how 
she, the stately one, lisped and prattled over it ; 
and how life came pouring into her heart from it. 

Before she had had it in her arms five min- 
utes, her pale cheek was as red as a rose, and 
her eyes brighter than diamonds. 

“ Bless you, Laure! bless you ! bless you ! in 
one moment you have mado me forget all I ever i 
siilfered in my life.” 


143 

“ There is a draught,” cried she, with mater- 
nal anxiety ; “ close the panel, Laure.” 

“ No, dear ! or I could not call to Jacintha, or 
she to me ; but I will shift the screen round be- 
tween him and the draught. There, — now come 
to his aunt, — a darling !” 

Then Laure sat on the floor too, and Joseph- 
ine put her boy on aunt's lap, and took a distant 
view of him. But she could not bear so vast a 
separation long. She must have him to her bo- 
som again. 

“ He is going to wake. See ! see ! his lovely 
eyes are unclosing.” 

“But he must not, love,” said Laure : “ there, 
put him back into this cradle, — quick.” 

This could not be done so adroitly but what 
young master did wake, and began to cry toler- 
ably loud. Laure rocked the cradle hastily. 

“Sing, Josephine,” said she, and she began 
an old-fashioned Breton chant or lullaby. 

Josephine sang with her, and, singing, watch- 
ed with a smile her boy drop off by degrees to 
sleep under the gentle motion and the lulling 
song. They sang and rocked till the lids came 
creeping down, and hid the great blue eyes ; but 
still they sang and rocked, lulling the boy, — and 
gladdening their own hearts : for the quaint old 
Breton ditty was tunable as the lark that carols 
over the green wheat in April ; and the words 
so simple and motherly that a nation had taken 
them to heart. Such songs bind ages together, 
and make the lofty and the low akin by the great 
ties of Music and the heart. Many a Breton 
peasant’s bosom in the olden time had gushed 
over her sleeping boy as the young dame’s of 
Beaurepaire gushed now, in this quaint, tuneful 
lullaby. 

Now as they kneeled over the cradle, one on 
each side, and rocked it, and sang that ancient 
chant, Josephine, who was opposite the screen, 
happening to raise her eyes, saw a strange 
thing. 

There was the face of a man set close against 
the side of the screen, and peeping and peering 
out of the gloom. The light of her candle fell 
full on this face ; it glared at her, set pale, 
wonder-struck, and vivid, in the surrounding 
gloom. 

Horror ! Her husband’s face ! 

At first she was stupefied, and looked at it 
with soul and senses benumbed. Then she 
trembled, and put her hand to her eyes; for 
she thought it a phantom or a delusion of the 
mind. No : there it glared still. Then she 
trembled violently, and held out her left hand, 
the fingers working convulsively, to Laure, who 
was still singing. 

But almost at this moment the mouth of this 
face suddenly opened in a long-drawn breath. 
At this Josephine uttered a violent shriek, and 
sprang to her feet, with her right hand quivering 
and pointing at that pale face set in the dark. 

Laure started up, and, wheeling her head 
round, saw llaynal’s gloomy face looking over 
her shoulder. She fell screaming upon her 
knees, and, almost out of her senses, began to 
pray wildly and piteously for mercy. 

Josephine uttered one more cry, but this was 
the faint cry of nature sinking under the shock 


WHITE LIES. 


lU 

of terror. She swooned dead away, and fell 
senseless on the floor ere Raynal could debarrass 
himself of the screen and get to her. 

This, then, was the scene that met Edouard’s 
eyes. 

His mistress on her knees, white as a ghost, 
trembling and screaming, rather than crying, for 
mercy. And Raynal standing over his wife, 
showing by the working of his iron features that 
he doubted whether she was worthy he should 
raise her. 

One would have thought nothing could add to 
the terror of this scene. Yet it was added to. 
The baroness rang her hand-bell violently in 
the room below. She had heard Josejjhine’s 
scream and fall. 

“ Oh ! she too !” cried Laure, and she grovel- 
led on her knees to Raynal, and seizing his 
knees, implored him to show some pity. 

“ Oh, sir ! kill us ! we are culpable.” 

Bring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! pealed 
the baroness’s bell. 

“But do not tell our mother. Oh, if you are 
a man, do not ! — do not ! Show us some pity ! 
We are but women. Mercy ! mercy! mercy !” 

“Speak out then !” groaned Raynal. “What 
does this mean ?” 

“ W — w' — what?” faltered Laure. 

“Why has my wife swooned at sight of me? 
— whose is this child ?” 

“Whose?” stammered Laure. Till he said 
that, she never thought there could be a doubt 
whose child. 

Bring! dring! dring! dring! dring! 

“O my God!” cried the poor girl, and her 
eyes glanced every way like some wild creature 
looking for a hole, however small, to escape 
by. 

Edouard, seeing her hesitation, came down 
on her other side. 

“Whose is the child, Laure ?” said he stern- 

ly. 

‘ ‘ You too ! why were we born ? mercy ! oh ! 
let me go to my sister!” 

Bring! dring! dring! dring! dring! 

The men were excited to fury by Laure’s hes- 
itation : they each seized an arm, and tore her 
screaming with fear at their violence from her 
knees up to her feet between them with a single 
gesture. 

“You hurt me!” said she, bitterly, to Edou- 
ard, and she left crying, and was terribly calm 
and sullen all in a moment. 

“Whose is the child?” roared Edouard and 
Raynal in one raging breath. “ Whose is the 
child?” 

“ It IS MINE !” 

These were not words, they were electric 
shocks. 

The two hands that griped Laure’s arms were 
paralyzed, and dropped off them ; and there was 
silence. 

Then the thought of all she had done with 
those three words began to rise and grow and 
surge over her. She stood, her eyes turned 
downward yet inward, and dilating with hor- 
ror. 

Silence ! 

Now a mist came over her eyes, and in it she 
saw indistinctly the figure of Raynal darting to 
his wife’s side and raising her head. 

She dared not look round on the other side. 


She heard feet stagger on the floor. She heard 
a groan, too ; but not a word. 

Horrible silence ! 

With nerves strung to frenzy, and trembling 
acute ears, she waited for a reproach, a curse: 
either would have been some little relief. But 
no ! a silence far more terrible. 

Then a step wavered across the room. Her 
soul was in her ear. She could hear and feel 
the step totter, and it shook her as it went. All 
sounds were trebled to her. Then it struck on 
the stone step of the staircase, not like a step, 
but a loud, crashing knell ; another step, another, 
and another: down to the very bottom. Each 
slow step made her head ring and her heart 
freeze. 

At last she heard no more. Then a scream 
of anguish and recall rose to her lips. She 
fought it down for Josephine and Raynal. 
Edouard was gone. She had but her sister 
now — the sister she loved be^er than herself ; 
the sister to save \vhose life and honor she had 
this moment sacrificed l>er own and all a wom- 
an lives for. 

She turned with a wild cry of love and pity to 
that sister’s side to help her; and, W'hen she 
kneeled down beside her, an iron arm was 
promptly thrust out betw'een the beloved one 
and her. 

“ This is my care, madame,” said Raynal, 
coldly. 

There wms no mistaking his manner. The 
stained one was not to touch his wife. 

She looked at him in piteous amazement at 
his ingratitude. 

“ It is well,” said she. “It is just. I deserve 
this from you.” 

She said no more, but drooped gently down 
beside the cradle, and hid her forehead in the 
clothes beside the child that had brought all this 
woe, and sobbed bitterly. 

Honest Raynal began to be sorry for her in 
spite of himself. But there was no time for 
this. Josephine stirred ; and, at the same mo- 
ment, a violent knocking came, at the door of the 
apartment, and the new servant’s voice, crying : 

“Oh, ladies! for Heaven’s sake what is the 
matter ! The baroness heard a fall, — she is 
getting up, — she will be here. What shall I tell 
her? — what is the matter ?” 

Raynal w'as going to answer, but Laure, who 
had started up at the knocking, put her hand in 
a moment before his mouth. 

She ran to the door. 

“There is nothing the matter; tell mamma 
I am coming down to her directly.” She flew 
back to Raynal in an excitement little short of 
frenzy. “Help me carry her into her own 
room !” cried she imperiously. 

Raynal obeyed by instinct ; for the fiery girl 
spoke like a general giving the word of command 
with the enemy in front. 

“Now put it out of sight, — take this, — quick, 
quick!” 

Raynal w^ent to the cradle. 

“ Ah ! my poor girl,” said he, as he lifted it 
in his arms, “this is a sorry business to have to 
hide your own child from your own mother !” 

“Colonel Raynal!” said Laure, “do not in- 
sult a poor despairing girl — e'est idehe." 

I “ I am silent, young woman !” said Raynal, 
sternly. “ What is to be done ?” 


WHITE LIES. 


145 


“ Take it down the steps, and give it to Jacin- J me like that ? Take this, I tell you, and carrv 

it out of the house !’’ 


lha. Stay, here is a candle. I go to tell mam- 
ma you are come : and. Colonel Kaynal, I nev- 
er injured you; and if you tell my mother you 
will stab her to the heart and me, and may the 
curse of cowards light on you! may — ” 

“ Enough I” cried Raynal, fiercely. “ Do you 
take me for a babbling girl ? I love your mother 
better than you do, or this would not be here. I 
shall not bring her gray hairs down with sorrow 
to the grave. I sliall speak of this villainy to 
but one person : and to him I shall talk with 
this, and not wdth the idle tongue !” and he tap- 
ped his sw’ord-hilt witl^a sombre look of terri- 
ble significance. 

He carried out the cradle. The child slept 
sweetly through it all. 

Laure darted into Josephine’s room, took the 
key from the inside to the outside, locked the 
door, put the key in her pocket, and ran down to 
her mother’s room : her knees trembled under 
her as she went. 

Jacintha, sleeping tranquilly, suddenly felt 
her throat griped, and heard a loud voice ring 
in her ear : then she was lifted and w'renched, 
and dropped. She found herself lying clear of 
the steps in the moonlight : her head was where 
her feet had been, and her candle out. 

She uttered shriek upon shriek, and was too 
frightened to get up. She thought it was su- 
pernatural : some old De Beaurepaire had served 
her thus for sleeping on her post. A struggle 
took place between her fidelity and her super- 
stitious fears. Fidelity conquered. Quaking in 
every limb, she groped up the staircase for her 
candle. 

It was gone. 

Then a still more sickening fear came over 
her. I 

What if tiiis was no spirit’s work, but a hu- j 
man arm, — a strong one, — some man’s arm ? 

Her first impulse was to dart up the stairs and 
make sure that no calamity had befallen through ‘ 
her mistimed drowsiness. But when she came | 
to tr}', her dread of the supernatural revived. | 
She could not venture without a light up those 
stairs, thronged perhaps with angry spirits. She ’ 
ran to the kitchen. She found the tinder-box, I 
and with trembling hands struck a light. She ' 
came back shading it with her hands, and, com- j 
milting her soul to the care of Heaven, she crept 
quaking up the stairs. Then she heard voices ' 
above, and that restored her more; she mounted 
more steadily. Presently she stopped : for a 
heavy step was coming down. It did not sound 
like a woman’s step. It came farther down : 
she turned to fly. I 

“Jacintha!” said a deep voice that in tliis 
stone cylinder rang like thunder from a tomb. 

“ 0 saints and angels, save me !” yelled Ja- 
cintha, and fell on her knees, and hid her head 
for security, and down went her candlestick clat- 
tering on the stone. | 

“Don't be a fool !” said the iron voice over 
her head. “Get up and take this.” 

She raised her head by slow degrees, shudder- 
ing. 

A man was holding out a cradle to her: the 
candle he carried lighted up his face. I 

“ Colonel Raynal !” I 

“Well, what do vou kneel there for, gaping at 
10 


lie shoved it roughly down into her hands, then 
turned on his heel without a word. 

Jacintha collapsed on the stairs, and the cradle 
sank beside her : for all the power was driven 
out of her body : she could hardly support her 
own weight, much less tlie cradle. 

She rocked herself and groaned. 

“Oh, what’s this? — oh, what’s this?” 

A cold perspiration came over her whole 
frame. 

“ Oh, what does this mean ? What has hap- 
pened ?” 

She took up the candle that was lying burning 
and guttering on the stairs, scraped up the grease 
with the snuffers, and tried to polish it clean with 
a bit of paper that shook between her fingers. 
She took the child out of the cradle, and wrap- 
ped it carefully in her shawl, then went slowly 
down the stairs, and, holding him close to her 
bosom, with a furtive eye, and brain confused, 
and a heart like lead, stole away to tlie tenant- 
less cottage where Madame Jouvenel awaited her. 

Laure found tlie baroness pale and agitated. 
“ What is the matter ? What is going on over 
my head ?” 

“Darling mother, something has happened 
that will rejoice your heart. Somebody has come 
home !” 

“My .son ? Oh no ! impossible ! We can not 
be so happy.” 

“ He wiil be with you directly.” 

The old lady now trembled w’ith joyful agita- 
tion. 

“In five minutes I will bring him to yon. 
Shall you be dressed ? I will ring for the girl 
to help yon.” 

“But, Laure, the scream, and that terrible 
fall. Ah! where is Josephine ?” 

“ Can’t you guess, mamma ? Oh, the fall w’as 
the fall of the screen, and they stumbled over it 
in the dark.” 

“They! who?” 

“ Colonel Raynal and — and Edouard. I will 
tell you, mamma, but don’t be angry or even 
mention it. They wanted to surprise us. They 
saw a light burning, and they crept on tiptoe up 
to the tapestried room, where Josephine and I 
were, and they did give us a great fright.” 

“What madness!” cried the baroness, angri- 
ly; “and in Josephine’s weak state ! Such a 
surprise might have driven her into a fit.” 

V Yes, it was foolish ; but let it pass mamma. 
Don’t speak of it. He is sorry about it.’’ 

Laure slipped out, ordered a fire in the salon, 
and not in the tapestried room, and the next min- 
ute was at her sister’s door. There she found 
Raynal knocking and asking Josephine how she 
W’as. 

“ Pray leave her alone a moment,” said she. 
“ I will bring her dow’n to you. jMamma is wait- 
ing for you in the salon." 

Raynal went down. Laure unlocked the bed- 
room door, went in, and to her horror found Jo- 
sephine lying on the floor. She dashed waiter in 
her face, and ap[)lied every remedy; and at last 
she came back to life and its terrors. 

“ Save me, Laure ! save me, — he is coming to 
kill me, — I heard him at the door;” and she 
clung, trembling piteously, to Laure. 

Then Laure, seeing her terror, was glad at the 


14G 


WHITE LIES. 


suicidal falsehood she had told. She comforted 
and encouraged Josephine, and — deceived her. 

“All is well, my poor coward,” she cried; 
“your fears are all imaginary : another has own- 
ed the child; and the story is believed.” 

“ Another ! impossible ! He would not believe 
it.” 

“He does believe it. He shall believe it.” 

Laure then, feeling by no means sure that Jo- 
sephine, terrified as she was, would consent to 
let her sister come to shame to screen her, told 
her boldly that Jacintha had owned herself the 
mother of the child, and that Ilaynal’s only feel- 
ing towards her was pity, and regret at having 
so foolishly frightened her, weakened as she was 
by illness. I told him you had been ill, dear. 
But how came you on the ground ?” 

“Laure, I had come to myself ; I was on my 
knees praying. He tapped. I heard his voice. 
I remember no more. I must have fainted again 
directly.” 

Laure had hard work to make her believe that 
her guilt, as she called it, was not known ; and 
even then she could not prevail on her to come 
down-stairs, until she said, “If youdon’t, he will 
come to you.” On that Josephine consented ca- 
gerl}^ and with trembling fingers began to ad- 
just her hair and her dress for the interview. 

All this terrible night Laure fought for her 
sister. 

She took her down-stairs to the salon. She 
put her on the sofa. She sat by her and pressed 
her hand constantly to give her courage. She 
told the story of the surprise her own way before 
the whole party, including the doctor, to prevent 
Kaynal from being called on to tell it his way. 
She laughed at Josephine’s absurdity, but ex- 
cused it on account of her feeble health. In 
short, she threw more and more dust in all their 
eyes. 

But by the time when the rising sun came 
fiiintly in and lighted the haggard party, where 
the deceived were happy, the deceivers wretched, 
the supernatural strength this young girl had 
shown was almost exhausted. She felt an hys- 
terical impulse to scream and weep : each min- 
ute it became more and more ungovernable. 
Then came an unexpected turn. Raynal, after 
a long and loving talk with his mother, as he 
called her, looked at his watch, and, in a charac- 
teristic way, coolly announced his immediate de- 
parture, this being the first hint he had given 
them that he was not come back for good. 

The baroness was thunderstruck. , 

Laure and Josephine pressed one another’s 
hands, and had much ado not to utter a loud 
cry of joy. 

Raynal explained the case. Six days were 
allowed him to carry his dispatches to the Rhine. 

He had calculated that he could do it in four 
days from Paris. “ So I stole a day to get a 
peep at you and my wife. But now I must be 
off; not an hour to lose. Don’t fret, mother, 
I shall soon be back again, if I am not knocked 
on the head.” 

Raynal took a jovial leave of them all. When 
it came to Laure’s turn he drew her aside, and 
whispered into her ear : 

“ Who is the man?” 

She started, and seemed dumfounded. “No 
one you know,” she whispered. 

“Tell me, or I ask my wife.” 


“She has promised me not to betray me; I 
made her swear. Spare me now, brother ; I will 
tell you all when you come back.” 

“That is a bargain, now hear me swear; he 
shall marry you, or he shall die by m.y hand.” 

He confirmed this by a tremendous oath. 

Laure shuddered, but she said nothing, only 
she thought to herself, “ I am forewarned. Nev- 
er shall you know who is the father of that child.” 

He was gone. 

The Baroness. “What had he to say to you, 
Laure ? Your poor mother is jealous !” 

Laure. “He was only telling me what to do 
to keep up your couragjj and Josephine’s till he 
comes back for good.” 

Baroness. “Ah! Heaven grant it may be 
soon !” 

This was the last lie the entangled one had to 
tell that morning. The next minute the sisters, 
exhausted by their terrible struggle, went feebly, 
with downcast eyes, along the corridor and up 
the staircase to Josephine’s room.” 

They went hand in hand. They sank down, 
dressed as they were, on Josephine’s bed, and 
clung to one another and trembled together, till 
their exhausted natures sank into uneasy slum- 
bers, from which each in turn would wake ever 
and anon, with a convulsive start, and clasp her 
sister tighter to her breast. 

Theirs was a marvellous love. Even a course 
of deceit had not yet prevailed to separate or 
chill their sister bosoms. But even in this deep 
and wonderful love there were degrees : one went 
a shade deeper than the other now ; ay, since 
last night. Which ? why, she who had sacri- 
ficed herself for the other, and dared not tell her 
of it, lest the sacrifice should be refused. 

It was the gray of the morning, and foggy, 
when Raynal, after taking leave, went to the sta- 
ble for his horse. At the stable door he came 
upon a man sitting doubled up on the very stones 
of the yard, with his head on his knees. This 
figure lifted its head, and showed him the face 
of Edouard Riviere, white and ghastly ; his hair 
lank with the mist, his teeth chattering with cold 
and misery. The poor wretch had walked fran- 
tically all night round and round the chateau, 
waiting till he should come out. He told him 
so. 

“But why didn’t you — ? Ah! I see. No! 
you could not go into the house after that. Be 
a man ! There is but one thing for you to do. 
Turn your back on her, and forget she ever lived. 
She is dead to you.” 

“ There is something to be done besides that,” 
said Edouard gloomily. 

“What?” 

“ Vengeance.” 

“That is my affair, young man. When I 
come back from the Rhine, she will tell me who 
her seducer is. She has promised.” 

“ She will never tell you : she is young in years, 
but old in treachery. Thank Heaven, we don’t 
depend on her. I know the villain.” 

“ Ah ! Then tell me this moment !” 

“It is that scoundrel Dujardin!” 

“ Dujardin? What do you mean ?” 

“I mean that, while you were fighting for 
France, your house was turned into a hospital 
for wounded soldiers.” 

“All the better.” 


147 


WHITE LIES. 


“That this Dujardin was housed by you, was 
nursed by your wife, and all the family ; and in 
return has seduced your sister, — my affianced !” 

“I can’t believe it. Camille Dujardin was 
always a man of honor, and a good soldier.” 

“Colonel, there has been no man near the 
place but this Dujardin. I tell you it is he. 
Don’t make me tear my bleeding heart out ; 
must I tell you how often I caught them togeth- 
er, how I suspected, and how she gulled me, 
blind fool that I was, to believe a woman’s words 
before my own eyes ? I swear to you he is the 
villain. The only question is, which of us two 
is to kill him ?” 

“ Where is the man ?” 

“ He is in the army of the Rhine.” 

“Ah ! all the better.” 

“ Covered with glory and honor. Curse him! 
Oh, curse him ! curse him !” 

“ I am in luck. I am going to the Rhine.” 

“I know it. That is why I waited here all 
through this night of misery. Yes, you are in 
luck. But you will send me a line when you 
have killed him; will you not? Then I shall 
know joy again. Should he escape you, he shall 
not escape me.” 

“Young man,” said Raynal, calmly, “this 
rage is unmanly. We have not heard his side 
of the story. He is a good soldier. Perhaps 
he is not all to blame ; or perhaps passion has 
betrayed him into a sin that his conscience and 
honor disapprove ; if so, he must not die. You 
think only of your wrong; it is natural. But I 
am the girl’s brother, — guardian of her honor 
and my own. His life is precious as gold. I 
shall make him marry her.” 

“What! reward him for his villainy!” cried 
Edouard, frantically. 

“ I don’t see the mighty reward, ’ replied Ray- 
nal-, with a sneer. 

“ You leave one thing out of the calculation, 
monsieur,” said Edouard, trembling with anger, 
— “ that I will kill your brother-in-law at the 
altar, before her eyes.” 

“ You leave one thing out of the calculation, 
— that you will first have to cross swords at the 
altar with me.” 

“ So be it. I will not draw on my old com- 
mandant. I could not : but be sure I will catch 
him and her alone some day, and the bride shall 
be a widow in her honeymoon.” 

“As you please, ’’said Raynal, coolly. “That 
is all fair. I shall make her an honest wife : 
you may make her an honest widow. (This is 
what they call love, and sneer at me for keeping 
clear of it.) But neither he nor you shall keep 

imj sister what she is now, a .” And he used 

a word out of the camp. 

Edouard winced and groaned. 

“ Oh ! don’t call her by such a name ! There 
is some mystery. She loved me once. There 
must have been some strange seduction.” 

“Why so?” cried Raynal, “I never saw a 
girl that could take her own part better than she 
can. She is not like her sister at all in charac- 
ter. Not that I excuse him. It was a dishon- 
orable act: an ungrateful act to my wife and my 
mother.” 

“ And to you.” 

“In four days I shall stand before him. I: 
shall not go into a pet like you ; I am in earnest. 

I shall just say to him, ‘Dujardin, I know all!’ j 


Then, if he is guilty, his face will show it direct- 
ly. Then I shall say, ‘ Comrade, you must mar- 
ry her whom you have dishonored.’” 

“ He will not ! He is a libertine, a rascal.” 

“You are speaking of a man you don’t know. 
He ivill marry her, and repair the wrong he has 
done.” 

“ Suppose he refuses ?” 

“ Why should he refuse ? the girl is not ugly 
or old, and if she has done a folly, he was her 
partner in it.” 

“ Suppose he refuses ?” 

Raynal ground his teeth. 

“Refuse ? if he does, I’ll run my sword tlirough 
his carcass, then and there. And the girl to a 
convent.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The French army lay before a fortified place 
near the Rhine, which we will call Philipsburg. 

This army knew Bonaparte by report only : it 
was commanded by generals of the old school. 

Philipsburg was defended on three sides by 
the nature of the ground : but on the side that 
faced the French line of march there was only a 
zigzag wall, pierced, and a low tower or two at 
the salient angles. 

There were evidences of a tardy attempt to 
improve the defenses. In particular there was 
a large round bastion about three times the height 
of the wall ; the masonry was new, and the very 
embrasures were not cut. 

Young blood was for assaulting these equivocal 
fortifications at the end of the day’s march that 
brought the French advanced guard in sight of 
the place, but the old generals would not hear 
of it. The soldiers’ lives must not be flung away 
assaulting a place that could be reduced in 
twenty-one days with mathematical certainty. 
For at this epoch a siege was looked on as a 
process with a certain result: the only problem 
was in how many days would the place be taken ; 
and even this they used to settle to a day or two 
on paper by arithmetic ; so many feet of wall, 
and so many guns on the one side: so many 
guns, so many men, and such and such a soil to 
cut the trenches in on the other, — result, tw'o 
figures varying from fourteen to forty. These 
two figures represented the duration of the siege. 

For all that, siege arithmetic, right in general, 
has always been terribly disturbed by one little 
incident that occurs now and then, viz., genius 
laside. This is one of the sins of genius : it 
goes and puts out calculations that have stood 
the brunt of years. Archimedes and Todleben 
were, no doubt, clever men in their way, and 
good citizens, yet one characteristic of delicate 
men’s minds they lacked, — veneration. Thej 
showed an utter disrespect for the wisdom of the 
ancients, deranged the calculations which so 
much learning and patient thought had hallow- 
ed, disturbed the minds of white-haired veter- 
ans, took sieges out of the grasp of science, and 
plunged them back into the field of the wild- 
est conjecture. 

Our generals then sat down at fourteen hun- 
dred yards’ distance, and planned the trenches 
artistically, and directed them to be cut at artful 
angles, and so creep nearer and nearer the de- 
voted town. Then the Prussians, whose hearts 


U8 


WHITE LIES. 


had been in their shoes at first sight of the French ! 
shakos, plucked up, and they turned, not the gar- 
rison only, but the population of the town, into 
engineers and masons. Their fortifications grew 
almost as fast as the French trenches. 

The first day of the siege, a young but distin- 
guished brigadier in the French army rode to tlie 
quarters of General Raimbaut, who commanded 
his division, and was his personal friend, and re- 
spectfully but firmly entreated the general to rep- 
resent to the commander-in-chief the propriety 
of assaulting that new bastion before it should be- 
come dangerous. 

“My brigade shall carry it in fifteen minutes, 
general.” 

“What, cross all that open under fire? one- 
half your brigade would never reach the bastion.” 

“The other half would take it, general.” 

“That is very doubtful.” 

“ And the next day you would have the town.” 

General Raimbaut refused to forward the young 
colonel’s proposal to head quai-ters. 

“I will not subject you to two refusals in one 
matter,” said he, kindly. 

The young colonel lingered. He said, re- 
spectfully : “ One question, general : when that 
bastion cuts its teeth will it be any easier to take 
than now ?” 

“ Certainly : it will always be easier to take it 
from the sap than to cross the open under fire to 
it, and take it. Come, colonel, to your trenches, 
and if your friend should cut its teeth, you shall 
have a battery in your attack that will set its 
teeth on edge, — ha! ha!” 

The young colonel did not echo his chief’s hu- 
mor he; saluted gravely, and returned to the 
trenches. 

The next morning three fresh tiers of embra- 
sures grinned one above another at the besiegers. 
The besieged had been up all night, and not idle. 
In half these apertures black muzzles showed 
themselves. 

The bastion had cut its front teeth. 


CIIAPTEil XXXIX. 

Tiiirteextii day of the siege. 

The trenches were within four hundred yards 
of the enemy’s guns, and it was hot work in them. 
The enemy had three tiers of guns in the round 
bastion, and on the top they had got a long 48- 
pounder, which they worked with a swivel joint, 
or something, and threw a great roaring shot 
into any part of the French lines. 

As to thccommander-in-chief and his generals, 
they were dotted about a long way in the rear, 
and no shot came as far as them ; but in the 
trenches the men began now to fall fast, espe- 
cially on the left attack, which faced the round 
bastion. Our young colonel had got his heavy 
battery, and every now and then he would divert 
the general efforts of the bastion, and compel it 
to concentrate its attention on him by pounding 
away at it till it was all in sore places. But he 
meant it worse mischief than that ; still, as here- 
tofore, regarding it as the key to Philipshurg. 
He had got a large force of engineers at work 
driving a mine towards it : and to this ho trust- 
ed more than to breaching it, for the bigger 
holes he made in it by day were all stopped at 


' night by the townspeople. This colonel was 
not a favorite in the division to which his bri- 
gade belonged. He was a good soldier, but a dull 
companion. He was also accused of haxilmr and 
of an unsoldierly reserve with his brother officers. 

Some loose-tongued ones even called him a 
milksop, because he was constantly seen convers- 
ing with the priest, — he who had nothing to say 
to an honest soldier. 

Others said, “No, hang it! he is not a milk- 
sop : he is a tried soldier : he is a sulky beggar 
all the same.” Those under his immediate 
command were divided in opinion about him. 
There was something about him they could not 
understand. Why was his sallow face so stern, 
so sad ? and why with all that was his voice so 
gentle? The few words that did fall from his 
mouth were prized. One old soldier used to say, 
“I would rather have a word from our brigadier 
than from the commander-in-chief.” Others 
thought he must at some part of his career have 
pillaged a church, taken the altar-piece, and sold 
it to a picture-dealer in Paris, or whipped the 
ear-rings out of the Madonna’s ear, or admitted 
the female enemy to quarter upon ungenerous 
conditions, this or some such crime to which 
we poor soldiers are liable : and now was com- 
mitting the mistake of remording himself about 
it. “ Always alongside the chaplain, you see !” 

This cold and silent man had won the heart 
of the most talkative sergeant in the French 
army. Sergeant La Croix protested with many 
oaths that all the best generals of the day had 
commanded him in turn, and that his present 
colonel was the first that had succeeded in inspir- 
ing him with unlimited confidence. “He knows 
every point of war, — this one,” said La Croix; 
“ I heard him beg and pray for leave to storm 
this thundering bastion before it was armed : 
but no! the old •muffs would be wiser than our 
colonel. So now here we are kept at bay by a 
place that Julius Caesar and Cannibal wouldn’t 
have made two bites at apiece ; no more would I 
if I was the old boy out there behind the hill.” 
In such terms do sergeants denote commanders- 
in-chief — at a distance. A talkative sergeant 
has more influence with the men than the Minis- 
ter of War is perhaps aware; on the whole, the 
22d Brigade would have followed its gloomy 
colonel to grim death and a foot farther. 

_ One thing gave these men a touch of supersti- 
tious reverence for their commander. He seem- 
ed to them free from physical weakness, lie 
never sat down to dinner, and seemed never to 
sleep. At no hour of tlie day or night were the 
sentries safe from his visits. 

Very annoying. But, after a while, it led to 
keen watchfulness : the more so that the sad and 
gloomy colonel showed by his manner he appre- 
ciated it. Indeed, one night he even opened his 
marble jaws, and told Sergeant La Croix that a 
watchful sentry was an important soldier, not to 
his brigade only, but to the whole army. Judge 
whether the maxim, and the implied encomium, 
did not circul.ate next morning with additions. 

16th day of the siege. The round bastion 
opened fire at eight o’clock, not on the opposing 
battciy, but on the right of the French attack. 
Its advanced position enabled a portion of its 
guns to rake these trenches slant-wise ; and de- 
pressing its guns it made the round shot strike 
the ground first and ricochet over. 


WHITE LIES. 


149 


On this our colonel opened on them with all 
his guns : one of these he served himself. Among 
his other warlike accomplishments, he was a won- 
derful shot with a cannon. He showed them 
capital practice this morning : drove two embra- 
sures into one, and knocked about a ton of ma- 
sonry oflf the parapet. Then, taking advantage 
of this, he served two of his guns with grape, 
and swept the enemy off the top of the bastion, 
and kept it clear. He made it so hot they could 
not work the upper guns. Then they turned 
the other two tiers all upon him, and at it both 
sides went, ding dong, till the guns were too 
hot to be worked. So then Sergeant La Croix 
popped his head up from the battery, and show- 
ed the enemy a great white plate. This was 
meant to convey to them an invitation to dine 
with the French army: the other side of the 
table, of course. 

To the credit of Prussian intelligence be it re- 
corded, that this pantomimic hint was at once 
taken, and both sides went to dinner. 

The fighting colonel, however, remained in 
the battery, and kept a detachment of his gun- 
ners employed cooling and loading the guns and 
repairing the touch-holes. He ordered his two 
cutlets and his glass of water into the battery. 

Meantime the enemy fired a single gun at 
long intervals, as much as to say, “We had the 
last word.” Let trenches be cut ever so artfully, 
there will be a little space exposed here and 
there at the angles. These spaces the men are 
ordered to avoid, or whip quickly across them 
into cover. 

Now the enemy had just got the range of one 
of these places wdth their solitary gun, and had 
already dropped a couple of shot right on to it. 
A camp-follower with a tray, two cutlets, and a 
glass of water came to this open spaee just as a 
puff of white smoke burst from the bastion. In- 
stead of instantly seeking shelter till the shot 
had struck, he in his inexperience thought the 
shot must have struck, and all danger be over. 
He staid there musing, instead of pelting un- 
der cover: the shot (ISlb.) struck him right on 
the breast, knocked him into spillekens, and sent 
the mutton-chops flying. 

The human fragments lay quiet, ten yards off. 
But a soldier that was eating his dinner kicked 
it over, and jumped up at the side of “ Death’s 
Alley ’’ (as it was christened next minute), and 
danced and yelled with pain. 

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared a soldier from 
the other side of the alley. 

“What is that?” cried Sergeant La Croix. 
“What do you laugh at, Private Cadel ?” said 
he, sternly, for, though he was too far in the 
trench to see, he had heard that horrible sound 
a soldier knows from every other, — the “thud ‘ 
of a round shot striking man or horse. 

“ Sergeant,” said Cadel, respectfully, “ I laugh 
to see Private Dard, that got the wind of the 
shot, dance and sing, when the man that got the 
shot itself does not say a word.” 

“The wind of the shot, you rascal!” roared 
Private Dard : “ look here !” and he showed the 
blood running down his fixce. 

The shot had actually driven a splinter of 
bone out of the sutler into Dard’s temple. 

“I am the unluckiest fellow in the army,” 
remonstrated Dard; and he stamped in a cir- 
cle. 


‘ ‘ Seems to me you are only the second unluckl- 
est this time,” said a young soldier with his 
mouth full ; and, with a certain dry humor, he 
pointed vaguely over his shoulder with the fork 
towards the corpse. 

The trenches laughed and assented. 

This want of sympathy and justice irritated 
Dard. 

“ You cursed fools !” cried he. “He is gone 
where we must all go, — without any trouble. 
But look at me. I hm always getting barked. 
Dogs of Prussians ! they pick me out among a 
thousand. I shall have a headache all the af- 
ternoon, you see else.” 

“ Some of our heads would never have ached 
again : but Dard had a good thick skull.” 

Dard pulled out his spilleken savagely^ 

“I’ll wrap it up in paper for Jacintha, ” said 
he. “ Then that will learn her wdiat a poor sol- 
dier has to go through.” 

Even this consolation was denied Private Dard. 

Corporal Coriolanus Gand, a bit of an infidel 
from Lyons, who sometimes amused himself 
w'ith the Breton’s superstition, told him, with a 
grave face, that the splinter belonged, not to him, 
but to the sutler, and, though so small, was 
doubtless a necessary part of his frame. For a 
broken link is a broken chain. 

“It will be a bone of contention between you 
two,” said he; “ especially at midnight, lleicill 
be always coininy hack to you for it. ” 

“There, take it away!” said the Breton, 
hastilj", “ and bury it with the poor fellow.” 

Sergeant La Croix presented himself before 
the colonel with a rueful face, and saluted him 
and said : 

“Colonel, your dinner has been spilt, — a shot 
from the bastion.” 

“No matter,” said the colonel. “Get me a 
piece of bread instead.” 

Returning from this, La Croix found Cadel 
sitting on one side of Death’s Alley, and Dard 
with his head bound up on the other. They had 
got a bottle which each put up in turn wherever 
he fancied the next round shot would strike, and 
they were betting their afternoon rations which 
would get the Prussians to hit the bottle first.* 

La Croix pulled their ears playfully. 

“Time is up for playing marbles,” said he. 
“Mizzle, and play at round shot;” and he 
bundled them off into the battery. 

It was an hour past midnight : a cloudy night. 
The moon was up, but seen only by fitful gleams. 
A calm, peaceful silence reigned. 

Dard was sentinel in the battery. 

An officer going his rounds found the said sen- 
tinel flat instead of vertical. He stirred him 
with his scabbard, and up jumped Dard. 

“It’s all right, sergeant. O Lord! it’s the 
colonel. I wasn’t asleep, colonel.” 

“ I have not accused you. But you will ex- 
plain what you were doing.” 

“Colonel,” said Dard, all in a flutter, “I was 
taking a squint at them, because I saw some- 
thing.” 

“What?” 

“ Colonel, the beggars arc building a wall.” 

“Where?” 


* * So deep an impression had the above melancholy in- 

\ cident made upon theae two soldiers. 


150 


WHITE LIES. 


“ Between ns and the bastion.” 

“ Show me.” 

“ I can’t, colonel ; the moon has gone in ; but 
I did see it.” 

“ How long was it?” 

“ About a hundred yards.” 

How high ?” 

“Colonel, it was ten feet high if it was an 
inch.” 

“ Have you good sight?” 

“La! colonel, wasn’t I h bit of a poacher be- 
fore I took to the bayonet !” 

“ Good 1 Now refleet. If you persist, I turn 
out the brigade on your information.” 

“ I’ll stand the fire of a corporal’s guard at 
break of day, if I make a mistake now,” said 
Dard. 

The colonel glided away, called his captains 
and first lieutenants, and said two words in each 
ear, that made them spring off their backs. 

Dard, marching to and fro, musket on shoul- 
der, found himself suddenly surrounded by grim, 
silent, but deadly eager soldiers, that came pour- 
ing like bees into the open space behind the bat- 
tery. The officers came round the colonel. 

“ Attend to two things,” said he to the cap- 
tains. “Don’t fire till they are within ten 
yards : and don’t follow them unless I lead 
you.” 

The men were then told off by companies, 
some to the battery, some to the trenches, some 
were kept on each side Death’s Alley, ready for 
a rush. 

They were not all of them placed, when those 
behind the parapet saw something deepen the 
gloom of night, some fourscore yards to the 
front ; it was like a line of black ink suddenly 
drawn upon a sheet covered with Indian ink. 

It seemed quite stationary. The novices w'on- 
dered what it was. 

The veterans muttered, “Three deep.” 

Though it looked stationary, it got blacker 
and blacker. The soldiers of the 22d Brigade 
griped their muskets hard, and set their teeth, 
and the sergeants had much ado to keep them 
quiet. 

All of a sudden, a loud yell on the right of the 
brigade, two or three single shots from the 
trenehes in that direction, followed by volley, 
the cries of wounded men, and the fierce hurrahs 
of an attacking party. 

Our colonel knew too w’ell those sounds : the 
next parallel had been surprised, and the Prus- 
sian bayonet w’as now silently at work. 

Disguise on the part of the enemy was no long- 
er possible. At the first shot, a guttural voice w’as 
heard to give a w'ord of command. There was 
a sharp rattle, and in a moment the thick black 
line W’as tipped with steel. 

A roar and a rush, and the Prussian line three 
deep came furionsly like a huge steel-pointed 
wave at the French lines. A tremendous w^ave 
of fire rushed out to meet that wave of steel ; a 
crash of two hundred muskets, and all was still. 
Then you could see through the black steel-tip- 
j)ed line in a hundred frightful gaps, and the 
ground sparkled with bayonets, and the air rang 
with the cries of the wounded. 

A tremendous cheer from the brigade, and the 
colonel charged at the head of his eolumn out by 
Death’s Alley. 

The broken wall "svas melting away into the 


night. The colonel wheeled his men to the 
right : one company, led by the impetuous young 
Captain Jullien, followed the flying enemy. 

The other attack had been only too successful. 
They shot the sentries, and bayoneted many of 
the soldiers in their tents : others escaped by 
running to the rear, and some into the next par- 
allel. 

Several, half-dressed, snatched up their mus- 
kets, killed one Prussian, and fell riddled like 
sieves. 

A gallant officer got a company together into 
the place of arms and formed in line. 

Half the Prussian force w’ent at them, the rest 
sw’ept the trenches : the French company deliv- 
ered a deadly volley, and the next moment clash 
the two forces crossed bayonets, and a silent 
deadly stabbing-match Avas played : the final re- 
sult of which was inevitable. The Prussians 
were five to one. The gallant officer and the 
poor fellow's did their duty so stoutly, had no 
thought left but to die hard, w'hen suddenly a 
roaring cheer seemed to come from the rear rank 
of the enemy. “France! France!” The 24th 
Brigade w'as seen leaping and swarming over the 
trenches in the Prussian rear. The Prussians 
w'avered. “France!” cried the little party, 
that w'ere being overpowered, and they charged 
in their turn, with such fury that in two seconds 
ilie tw'o French corps went through the enem3'’s 
centre like paper, and their very bayonets clash- 
ed together, in more than one Prussian bod}'. 

Broken then in two fragments, the Prussian 
corps ceased to exist as a military force. The 
men fled, each his own way, back to the fort, 
and many flung aw’ay their muskets, for French 
soldiers were swarming in from all quarters. At 
this moment, bang ! bang ! bang ! from the bas- 
tion. 

“They are firing on my brigade,” said our 
colonel. “Who has led his company there 
against my orders ? Captain Neville, into the bat- 
tery, and fire tw’enty rounds at tlie. bastion. Aim 
at the flashes from their middle tier.” 

“ Yes, colonel.” 

The battery opened with all its guns on the 
bastion. The right attack followed suite. The 
tow’n answered, and a furious cannonade roared 
and blazed all down both lines till daybreak. 
Hell seemed broke loose. 

Captain Jullien had follow’ed the flying foe, 
but could not come up with them ; and, as the 
enemy had prepared for every contingency, the 
fatal bastion, after first throwing a rocket or tW'O 
to discover their position, poured showers of grape 
into them, killed many, and would have killed 
more, but that Captain Neville and his gunners 
happened by mere accident to dismount one gun, 
and to kill a couple of gunners at the other. 
Tliis gave the remains of the company time to 
disperse and run back. When the men were 
mustered, Captain Jullien and tw’cnty-five of his 
company did not answ’er to their names. At 
daybreak they w’cre visible from the trenches, 
lying all by themselves within eighty yards of the 
bastion. 

A flag of truce from the fort. 

The dead removed on both sides, and buried. 
Some Prussian officers strolled into the French 
I lines. Civilities and cigars exchanged : “ Z>o/i 
1 jour,*' “ Cooten daeg," and at it again, ding 
! dong all dow’ii the line, blazing and roaring. 


WHITE LIES. 


At twelve o’clock they had got a man on horse- 
back, on top of a hill, with colored flags in his 
hand, making signals. 

“ What are they up to now ?” inquired Dard. 

“You will see,” said La Croix, affecting mys- 
tery : he knew no more than the other. 

Presently off went Long Tom on the top of the 
bastion, and the shot came roaring over the heads 
of the speakers. 

The flags were changed, and off went Long 
Tom again at an elevation. 

Ten seconds had scarcely elapsed, when a tre- 
mendous explosion took place on the French 
right. Long Tom was throwing red-hot shot : 
one had fallen on a powder-wagon and blown 
it to i)ieces, and killed two poor fellows and a 
horse, and turned an artillery-man at some dis- 
tance into a nigger parson ; but did him no great 
harm ; only took him three days to get the pow- 
der out of his clothes with pipe-clay, and his face 
with raw potato-peel. 

When the tumbril exploded, the Prussians 
could be heard to cheer, and they turned to and 
fired every iron spout they owned. Long Tom 
worked all day. 

They got him into a corner where the guns of 
the battery could not hit them or him, and there 
was his long muzzle looking towards the sky, 
and sending half a hundred-weight of iron up 
into the clouds, and plunging down a mile off 
into the French lines. 

And, at every shot, the man on horseback 
made signals to let the gunners know where the 
shot fell. 

At last, about four in the afternoon they threw a 
forty-eight- pound shot slap into the commander- 
in-chief’s tent, a mile and a half behind the 
trenches. 

Down comes a glittering aide-de camji as hard 
as he can gallop. 

“Colonel Dujardin, what are ye about, sir? 
Your bastion has thrown a round shot into the 
commander-in-chief’s tent.” 

The colonel did not appear so staggered as the 
aide-de-camp expected. 

“Ah! indeed!” said he quietly. “I ob- 
served they were trying distances.” 

“ Must not happen again, colonel. You must 
drive them from the gun !” 

“ How, monsieur ?” 

“ Why, where is the difficulty ?” 

“ If you will do me the honor to step into the 
battery, I will show you,” said the colonel. 

“If you please, sir,” said the aide-de-camp, 
stiffly. 

Colonel Dujardin took him to the parapet, and 
began, in a calm, painstaking way, to show him 
how and why none of his guns could be brought 
to bear upon Long Tom. 

In the middle, of the explanation, a melodious 
sound was heard in the air above them, like a 
swarm of Brobdingnag bees. 

“What is that?” inquired the aide-de-camp. 

“What? I see nothing.” 

“That humming noise.” 

“Oh, that? Prussian bullets. Ah!by-the- 
by, it is a compliment to your uniform, monsieur ; 
they take you for some one of importance. 
Well, as I was observing — ” 

“*Your explanation is sufficient, colonel; let 
us get out of this. Ha ! ha ! you are a cool hand, 
colonel, I must say. But your battery is a warm 


151 

place enough : I shall report it so at head-quar- 
ters.” 

The grim colonel relaxed. 

“ Captain,” said he, politely, “you shall not 
have ridden to my post in vain. Will you lend 
me your horse for ten minutes?” 

“Certainly ; and I will inspect your trenches 
meantime.” 

“Do so; and be so good as to avoid that 
angle : it is exposed, and the enemy have got 
the range to an inch.” 

Colonel Dujardin slipped into his quarters : off 
with his half-dress jacket and his dirty boots, and 
presently out he came full fig, glittering brighter 
than the other, with one French and two foreign 
orders shining on his breast, mounted the aide- 
de-camp's horse and away full pelt. 

Admitted, after some little delay, into the 
generalissimo’s tent, Dujardin found the old 
gentleman surrounded by his staff, and wroth ; 
nor was the danger to which he had been ex- 
posed his sole cause of ire. 

The shot had burst through his canvas, struck 
a table on which was a large inkstand, and had 
squirted the whole contents over the dispatches 
he was writing for Paris. 

Now, this old gentleman prided himself upon 
the neatness of his dispatches : a blot on his pa- 
per darkened his soul. 

Colonel Dujardin expressed his profound re- 
gret. 

Commander-in-chief. “ I have a great deal of 
writing to do, as you are aware, and when I am 
writing I like to be quiet.” 

Colonel Dujardin assented respectfully to the 
justice of this. He then explained at full lengtii 
why he could not bring a gun in the battery to 
silence Long Tom, and quietly asked to be per- 
mitted to run a gun out of the trenches, and 
take a shot at the offender. 

“It is a point-blank distance, and I have a 
new gun, with which a man ought to be able to 
hit his own ball at three hundred yards.” 

The commander hesitated. 

“ I can not have the men exposed.” 

“ I engage not to lose a man, except — except 
him who fires the gun. He must take his 
chance.” 

“Well, colonel, it must be done by volunteers. 
The men must not be ordered out on such a serv- 
ice as that.” 

Colonel Dujardin bowed and retired. 

“Volunteers to go out of the trenches !” cried 
Sergeant La Croix, in a stentorian voice, stand- 
ing erect as a poker, and swelling with impor- 
tance. 

There were fifty offers in less than as many 
seconds. 

“Only twelve allowed to go,” said the ser- 
geant ; “ and I am one,” added he, adroitly in- 
serting himself. 

A gun was taken down, placed on a carriage, 
and posted near Death’s Alley, but out of the 
line of fire. 

The colonel himself superintended the loading 
of this gun ; and, to the surprise of the men, had 
the shot weighed first, and then weighed out the 
powder himself. 

He then waited quietly a long time till the 
bastion pitched one of its periodical shots into 
Death’s Alley : but no sooner had the shot struck, 
and sent the sand flying past the two lanes of 


152 


WHITE LIES. 


curious noses, thun Colonel Dujurdin jumped 
upon the gun and waved his cocked hat : at this 
preconcerted signal, his battery opened fire on 
the bastion, and the battery to his right opened 
on the wall that fronted them ; and the colonel 
gave the word to run the gun out of the trenches. 
They ran it out into the cloud of smoke their own 
guns were belching forth, unseen by the enemy ; 
but they had no sooner twisted it into the line 
of Long Tom, than the smoke was gone, and 
there they were, a fair mark. 

“ Back into the trenches, all but one !” roar- 
ed Dujardin. 

And in they ran like rabbits. 

“ Quick ! the elevation.” 

Colonel Dujardin and La Croix raised the 
muzzle to the mark, — hoo ! hoo ! boo ! ping ! 
ping ! ping ! came the bullets about their ears. 

“Away with you!” cried the colonel, taking 
the linstock from him. 

Then Colonel Dujardin, fifteen yards from the 
trenches, in full blazing uniform, showed two 
armies what one intrepid soldier can do. He 
kneeled down and adjusted his gun, just as he 
would have done in a practising-ground. He 
had a pot shot to take, and a pot shot he would 
take. He ignored three hundred muskets that 
were levelled at him. He looked along his gun, 
adjusted it, and re-adjusted to a hair s-breadth. 
The enemy’s bullets pattered over it, still he ad- 
justed and re-adjusted. His men were groaning 
and tearing their hair inside at his danger. 

At last it was levelled to his mind, and then 
his movements were as quick as they had hith- 
erto been slow. In a moment he stood erect in 
the half-fencing attitude of a gunner, and his 
linstock at the touch-hole : a huge tongue of 
flame, a volume of smoke, a roar, and the iron 
thunderbolt was on its wa}', and the colonel 
walked haughtily but rapidly back to the trench- 
es ; for in all this no bravado. He was there to 
make a shot ; not to throw a chance of life away 
watching the effect. 

Ten thousand eyes did that for him. 

Both French and Prussians risked their own 
lives eraning out to see what a colonel in full 
uniform was doing under fire from a whole line 
of forts, and what wpuld be his fate ; but when 
lie fired the gun their curiosity left the man and 
followed the iron thunderbolt. 

For two seeonds all was uncertain : the ball 
was travelling. 

Tom gave a rear like a wild horse, his protru- 
ding muzzle went up sky high, then was seen no 
more, and a ring of old iron and a clatter of frag- 
ments was heard on the top of the bastion. Long 
Tom was dismounted. Oh ! the roar of laugh- 
ter and triumph from one end to another of the 
trendies ; and the clapping of forty thousand 
hands, that went on for full five minutes : then 
the Prussians, either through a burst of generous 
praise for an act so chivalrous and so brilliant, 
or because they would not bo crowed over, clap- 
jied their ten thousand hands as loudly, and thun- 
dering, heart-thrilling salvo of applause answer- 
ed salvo on both sides that terrible arena. 

That evening a courteous and flattering mes- 
sage from the commander-in-chief to Colonel 
Dujardin ; and several officers came to his quar- 
ters to look at him : they went back disappoint- 
ed. The cry was, “What a miserable, melun- 1 


choly dog ! I expected to see a fine dashing fel- 
low.” 

The trenches neared the town. Colonel Dujar- 
din’s mine was far advanced : the end of the 
chamber was within a few yards of the bastion. 
Of late, the colonel had often visited this mine 
in person. He seemed a little uneasy about some- 
thing in that quarter : but no one knew what : 
he was a silent man. The third evening, after 
he dismounted Long Tom, he received private 
notice that an order was coming down from th.e 
commander-in-chief to assault the bastion. He 
shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. Th^ 
same night the colonel and one of his lieutenants 
stole out of the trenches, and by the help of a 
pitch-dark, windy night, got under the bastion 
unperceived, and crept round it, and made their 
observations, and got safe back. About noon 
down came General Raimbaut. 

“Well, colonel, you are to have your way at 
last. Your bastion is to be stormed this after- 
noon, previous to the general assault. Why how 
is this ? you don’t seem enchanted ?” 

“ I am not.” 

“ Why, it was you who pressed for the as- 
sault.” 

“ At the right time, general, not at the wrong. 
In five days I undertake to blow that bastion 
into the air. To assault it now would be to waste 
our men.” 

General Raimbaut thought this excess of cau- 
tion a great piece of perversity in Achilles. They 
were alone, and he said a little peevishly : 

“ Is not this to blow hot and cold on the same 
thing ?” 

“No, general,” was the calm reply. “I blew 
hot upon timorous counsels ; I blow cold on rash 
ones. General, last night Lieutenant Fleming 
and I were under that bastion, and all round it.” 

“ Ah ! my prudent colonel, I thought I should 
not talk long without your coming out in your 
true light. If ever a man secretly enjoyed risk- 
ing his life, it is you.” 

“No, general,” said Dujardin, looking gloom- 
ily down. “I enjoy neither that nor any thing 
else. Live or die, it is all one to me ; but to 
the lives of my soldiers I am not indifferent, and 
never will be while I live. My apparent rash- 
ness of last night was pure prudence.” 

Raimbaut’s eye twinkled with suppressed 
irony. 

“ No doubt 1” said he, — “ no doubt !” 

The impassive colonel would not notice the 
other’s irony : he went calmly on. 

“ I suspected something : I went to confute or 
confirm that suspicion. I confirmed it.” 

Rat 1 tat ! tat I tat ! tat ! tat I tat ! relieving 
guard in the mine. 

Colonel Dujardin interrupted himself. 

“That comes o/;ro/>os,” said he. “I expect 
one proof more from that quarter : .^ergeant, send 
me the sentinel tliey are relieving.” 

Sergeant La Croix soon came back, as pom- 
pous as a hen with one chick, predominating 
with a grand military air over a droll figure that 
chattered with cold, and held its musket in hands 
clothed in great mittens. Dard. 

La Croix marched him up as if he had been a 
file : halted him like a file, sung out to him as to 
a file, stentorian and inaudible, after the maiTncr 
of .sergeants, 
i “Frivato No. 4.” 


WHITE LIES. 


153 


Dard. “ P-p-p-present ! ” 

La Croix. “ Advance to the word of command, 
and speak to the colonel.” 

The shivering figure became an upright statue 
directly, and carried one of his mittens to his fore- 
head. Then suddenly recognizing the rank of the 
gray-haired officer, he was morally shaken, and 
remained physically erect and stammered : 

“ Colonel ! — general ! — colonel !” 

“ Don’t be frightened, my lad. But look at 
the general.” 

“ Yes ! general ! colonel !” and he levelled his 
eye dead at the general, as he would a bayonet 
at the foe, being so commanded. • 

“ Now answer in as few syllables as you can.” 

“ Yes, general, — colonel.” 

Colonel Dujardin. “ You have been on guard 
in the mine.” 

“Yes, general.” 

“What did you see there?” 

“ Nothing, it was night down there.” 

“ What did you feel ?” 

“ Cold I I — was — in — water — hugh !” 

“ Did you hear nothing, then ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What ?” 

“Bum! bum! bum!” 

“Are you sure you did not hear particles of 
earth fall at the end of the trench ?” 

“I did, and the earth trembled.” 

“Ah !” 

“ Very gently, and this ” (touching his musket) 
“sounded of its own accord.” 

“Good! you have answered well, go.” 

“Sergeant, I did not miss a word,” cried 
Dard, exulting. He thought he had passed a 
sort of college examination. The sergeant w'as 
awe-struck and disgusted at his familiarity, 
speaking to him before the great : he pushed 
Private Dard hastily out of the presence, and 
bundled him into the trenches. 

“ Are you countermined then ?” asked Gener- 
al Raimbaut. 

“ I think not, general ; but the enemy’s whole 
position is. And, general, we found the bastion 
liad been opened in the rear, and lately half a 
dozen I)road roads cut through the masonry.” 

“To let in re-enforcements?” 

“Or to let the men run out in case of an as- 
sault. — I have seen from the first an able hand 
behind that part of the defenses. If we assault 
that bastion, they will pick off as many of us as 
they can with their muskets : then they will run 
for it, and fire a train, and blow it and us into 
the air.” 

“ Colonel, this is serious. Are yon prepared 
to lay this statement before the commander-in- 
chief?” 

“ I am, and I do so through you, the general | 
of my division. I even beg you to say, as from ' 
me, that the assault will be mere suicide, — j 
bloody and useless.” 

“I will go to him at once. For the order 
W'as to come down in a couple of hours.” 

General Raimbaut went off to head-quarters 
in some haste, a thorough convert to Colonel 
Dujardin’s opinion. The colonel ordered a 
strong force of engineers into the mine, and went 
slowly to his tent. At the mouth of it, a corpo- j 
ral, who was also his body-serviijat, met him, sa- 
luted, and asked respectfully if there were any , 
orders. 1 


“A few minutes’ repose, rran 9 ois, that is all. 
Do not let me be disturbed for a quarter of an 
hour.” 

“Attention!” cried Fran 9 ois. “Colonel 
w’ants to sleep.” 

“He shall hear the gnats’ wings for us,” an- 
swered an honest soldier. 

The tent was sentinelled, and Dujardin was 
alone with the past. 

Then had the fools, that took (as fools always 
do) deep sorrow for sullenness, seen the fiery sol- 
dier droop, and his sallow face fall into haggard 
lines, and his martial figure shrink, and lieard 
his stout heart sigh ! ! He took a letter from his 
bosom : it w’as almost torn to pieces. He had 
read it a thousand times: yet he read it again. 
A part of the sw’eet, sad words ran thus : 

“ iVe must bow! We can never be happy t- 
getlier on earth : let us make Heaven our friend , — 
this is still left us, — 7iot to blush for our love, to do 
our duty, and to die .'” 

“How tender but how firm,” thought Ca- 
mille. “ I might agitate, taunt, grieve her I love, 
but I should not shake her. No ! God and the 
saints to my aid ! They saved me from a crime 
I now shudder at! and they have given me the 
good chaplain : he prays with me, he weeps 
for me. His prayers still my beating heart. I 
wish he was here now' ! Yes, poor suftering an- 
gel ! I read your will in these tender but bitter 
w’ords, — you prefer duty to love: and one day 
you will forget rne : not yet awdiile, but it will 
be so. It w’ounds me when I think of it : but I 
must bow ! Your will is sacred. I must rise to 
your level, w'ith God’s help : not drag you down 
to mine.” 

Then the soldier that stood between tw’O ar- 
mies in a hail of bullets, and fired a masteriShot, 
took a little book of offices in one hand, — the 
chaplain had given it him, — and fixed his eyes 
upon the pious words, and clung like a child to 
the pious words, and kissed his lost wife’s letter, 
and tried so hard to be like her he loved, — pa- 
tient, very patient, — till the end should come. 

“ Qui vive?" cried the sentinel, outside. 

“ France !” was the reply. 

The same voice asked the sentinel : 

“Where is the colonel commanding the bri- 
gade?” 

The sentinel low'ered his voice : 

“Asleep, my officer,” said he: for the new- 
comer carried tw’o epaulettes. 

“ Wake him !” said he, in the tone of a man 
used to command on a large scale. 

Dujardin heard, and did not choose such a 
man should think he W’as asleep in broad day. 
He came quickly out of the tent w'ith Jose- 
phine’s letter in his hand, and, in the very act of 
conveying it to his bosom, he found himself face 
to face W'ith — C olonel Raynal. 


CHAPTER XL. 

Did you ever sec two practised duellists cross 
rapiers ? 

How smooth and quiet the bright blades are, 
— they glide into contact! polished and slippei'y 
though they are, they hold each other. So these 


WHITE LIES. 


i:4 

two men’s eyes met, and fastened : neither spoke, 
each searched the other’s face keenly. Kaynal’s 
countenance, prepared as he was for this meet- 
ing, was like a stern statue’s. The other’s pale 
face flushed, and his heart raged and sickened 
at sight of the man that, once his comrade and 
benefactor, was now possessor of the woman he 
loved. But the figures of both stood alike 
haughty, erect, and immovable, face to face. 

Colonel Raynal saluted Colonel Dujardin. 
Colonel Dujardin returned the salute. 

“ You thought I was in Egypt ! !” said Raynal, 
with grim significance, that caught Dujardin’s 
attention, though he did not know quite how to 
interpret it. 

lie answered mechanically, “Yes.” 

“I am sent here by General Bonaparte to 
take a command.” 

“ You are welcome. What command ?” 

“Yours.” 

“Mine?” cried Dujardin, his forehead flush- 
ing with mortification and anger. “What, is it 
not enough that 3’ou should take away my — 
hem !” 

“ Come, colonel,” said the other, calmly, “ do 
not be unjust to an old comrade. I take your 
demi-brigade : but j'ou are promoted to Raira- 
baut’s brigade.” 

“Raynal, I was wrong,” said the fiery Ca- 
mille, lowering his eyes for the first time this 
campaign. 

“The exchange is to be made to-morrow,” 
continued the other, in the clear tone of military 
business. 

“Was it then to announce to me my promo- 
tion you came to my quarters?” and Camille 
looked with a strange mixture of feelings at his 
old comrade. 

“That was the first thing.” 

“The first?” 

“ The first being duty, you know.” 

“What! have you any thing else to say to 
mo then ?” 

“I have.” 

“Is it important? for my own duties will 
soon demand me.” 

“ It is so important that, command or no com- 
mand, I should have come farther than the 
Rhine to say it to you.” 

Let a man be as bold as a lion, a certain awe 
still waits upon doubt and mystery ; and some 
of this vague awe crept over Camille Dujardin 
at Raynal’s mysterious speech, and his grave, 
quiet, significant manner. 

Had he discovered something, and what ? For 
Josephine’s sake, not his own, Camille was on 
his guard directl}^ 

Raynal looked at him in silence a moment. 

“What?” said he, with a slight sneer, “has 
it never occurred to you that I must have a seri- 
ous word to say to you?” 

“ Speak, Colonel Raynal ! I am at your scrv- 
vice.” 

“First let me put to you a question. Did they 
treat you well at my house?” 

“ At your house ?” 

“ At the Chateau de Bcaurepairc ?” 

“ Yes,” faltered Camille. 

“You met, I trust, all the kindness and care 
due to a wounded soldier, and an ofificer of mer- 
it ? It would annoy me greatly if I thought you 
were not treated like a brother in my house!” 


Colonel Dujardin writhed inwardly at this 
view of matters. He could not reply in few 
words. This made him hesitate. 

His inquisitor waited ; but, receiving no reply, 
went on : 

“Well, colonel, have you shown the sense of 
gratitude we had a right to look for in return ? 
In a word, when you left Beaurepaire, had your 
conscience nothing to reproach you with ?” 

Dujardin still hesitated. He scarcely knew 
what to think or what to saj'. But he thought 
to himself, “ Who has told him? does he know 
all?” 

“Colonel Dujardin, I am the husband of Jo- 
sephine, the son of Madame de Beaurepaire, and 
the brother of Laure ! You know what brings 
me here. Your answer ?” 

“ Colonel Raynal, between men of honor, 
placed as you and I are, few words should pass : 
for words are idle. Never would you prove to 
me that I have wronged you:*I should never 
convince you that I have not. Let us therefore 
close this painful interview in the way it is sure 
to close. Colonel Raynal, dispose of me ; I am 
at your service at any hour and place you 
please.” 

“And pray is that all the answer j'ou can 
think of?” asked Raynal, somewhat scornfully. 

“ Why, what other answer can I give you?” 

“ A more sensible, a more honest, and a less 
boyish one. Who doubts that you can fight, 
you silly fellow ? haven’t I seen you ? I want 
you to show me a much higher sort of courage ; 
the courage to repair a wrong, not the paltry 
courage to defend one.” 

“I really do not understand you, sir. How 
can I undo what is done ?” 

“Why of course you can’t.” 

“ Well, then ?” 

“ And therefore I stand here ready to forgive 
all that is past: not without a struggle, which 
you don’t seem to appreciate.” 

Camille was now utterly mystified. 

“ Upon condition that you consent to heal the 
wound \’ou have made. If you refuse — hum ! 
but you will not refuse.” 

“ To the point, sir. What do you require of 
me?” 

“ Only a little common honesty. This is the 
case : you have seduced a j'oung lady.” 

“Monsieur !” cried Dujardin, angrily. 

“ What is the matter ? The word is not so 
bad as the crime, I take it. You have seduced 
her, and under circumstances — But we won’t 
speak of them, because I mean to keep cool. 
Well, sir, as you said just now, it’s no use crying 
over spilled milk : you can’t unseduce the little 
fool : you must marry her !’’ 

“M—m— marry her?” and Dujardin flushed 
all over, and his heart beat, and he stared in Ray- 
nal’s face. 

“Why, what is the matter again? If she 
has played the fool, it was with you, and no 
other man : it is not as if she was depraved. 
Come, my lad, a little generosity 1 Take the 
consequences of your own act, — or your share 
of it,— don’t throw it all on the poor feeble wom- 
an. If she has loved you too much, you are the 
man of all others that should forgive her. Come, 
what do you sa}^?” 

“Am I in my senses? Is it you, Jean Ray- 
nal, who stand there, and tell me to marr)’ her ?” 


WHITE LIES. 


155 


“I do. After all, is it such a misfortune to 
marry Laure de Beaurepaire ? She is young, 
she is pretty, slie has good qualities, and she 
would have walked straight to the end of her 
days but for you.” 

“Laure de Beaurejiaire ?” 

“Yes! Laure de Beaurepaire, — Laure Du- 
jardiii that ought to be, and that is to be, if you 
please.” 

“ One word, monsieur : is it of Laure de Beau- 
repaire we have been talking all this time ?” 

Raynal nearly lost his temper at this question, 
and the cold, contemptuous tone with which it 
was put, but he gulped down his ire. 

“It is ” said he. 

“ One question more. Did Laure de Bcaure- 
paire tell you I had — had — ” 

“Why, as to that, she was in no condition to 
deny she had fallen, poor girl, — the evidence 
was too strong. She did not reveal her seducer’s 
name ; but I had not far to go for that.” 

These words of Ilaynal made Dujardin think 
the strange proposal came from Josephine. 
She was deceiving hei* husband then in some 
other way, and not for love ot^ him ; since she 
proposed to marry him to Laure. He sickened 
at the cold-blooded insult to his love. Then 
^iame a fit of jealous rage. 

“They want me to marry Laure de Beaure- 
paire, do they? I decline,” said he coldly and 
bitterly. 

“You decline? this passes belief Such heart- 
lessness as this is not written either in your ac- 
tions or your face.” 

“I refuse.” 

“And I insist, in Josephine’s name !” 

“Perdition !” 

“ In the name of the whole family !” 

“I refuse.” 

“You will not marry her?” 

“ L^pon my honor, never.” 

“ Your honor ! you have none. You will not 
marry her ? Would you rather die ?” hissed 
Raynal. 

“A great deal rather, was the cool and irrita- 
ting answer. 

“Then you shall die.” 

“Ah I Did not I tell you we were wasting 
time, monsieur ?” 

“You did. Let us waste no more. When 
and w'here?” 

“ At the rear of the Commander-in-chiefs tent, 
when you like.” 

“ Tliis afternoon, then — at five ?” 

“ At five.” 

“ Seconds ?” 

“What for?” 

“ You are right. They are only in the way, 
and the less gossij) the better. Good-bye, till I 
five and the two saluted one another with grim 
ceremony : and Raynal turned on his heel. 

Camille stood transfixed: a fierce guilty joy 
throbbed in his heart. His rival had quarrelled 
with him, had insulted him, had challenged him. 
It was not his fault. The sun shone bright now 
upon his cold de.spair. An hour ago life offer- 
ed nothing. A few hours more, and then joy be- 
yond expression, or an end of all. Death or 
Josephine! His benefactor! At that thought ' 
a chill of misgiving struck across his boiling i 
lieart. 

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! the even 


' tread of soldiers marching. Dujardin looked 
up, and there were several officers coming along 
j the edge of the trench, escorted by a corporal’s 
guard. 

fie took a step or two to meet them. After 
the usual salutes, one of the three colonels de- 
livered a large paper, with a large seal, to Du- 
; jardin. He read it out to his captains and lieu- 
j tenants, who had assembled at sight of the cock- 
ed hats and full uniforms. 

Attack by the army to-morrow upon all the 
lines. Attack of the Bastion St. Andre this even- 
ing. The 22d,2\th,and \2th Brigades ivill fur- 
nish the contingents : the operation will he conducted 
by one of the colonels of the Second Division, to be 
apjwinted by General Raimbaut.'' 

“Aha!” sounded a voice like a trombone 
at the reader’s elbow. I am just in the nick 
of time. When, colonel, when ?” • 

“At five this evening,” Colonel Raynal. 

“At five?” 

“ At five.” 

“Could not they choose any hour but that?” 
said Raynal, under his breath. 

“ Do not be uneasy,” said Camille, undei* his 
breath. He explained aloud, “ The assault 
will not take place, gentlemen : the bastion is 
mined.” 

“ What of that ? half of them are mined. We 
will take our engineers in with us.” 

“ Such an assault would be a useless massacre,” 
continued Dujardin, reddening at Raynal’s inter- 
ruption. I reconnoitred the bastion last night, 
and saw their preparations for blowing us to the 
devil ; and General Raimbaut, at my request, is 
even now presenting my remarks to the com- 
mander-in-chief, and enforcing them. There 
will be no assault. In a day or two we shall blow 
the bastion, mines, and all, into the air.” 

At this moment Raynal caught siglit of a gray- 
haired officer coming at some distance. 

“There is General Raimbaut,” said he. “I 
will go and pay my respects to him.” 

General Raimbaut shook his hand warmly, and 
welcomed him to the army. The}^ were old and 
warm friends. 

“And you are come at the right time,” said 
he “It will soon be as hot here as in Egypt.” 

Raynal laughed: 

“All the better.” 

“ Good-day, messieurs. Colonel Dujardin, I 
presented your observations to the commander-in- 
chief. He gave them due attention. But they 
are overruled by imperious circumstances , some 
of which he did not reveal; they remain in his 
own breast However, on the eve of a general 
attack, which he can not postpone, that bastion 
must be disarmed, otherwise it would bo too fa- 
tal to all the storming-parties. It is a painful 
necessity. He added, ‘ Tell Colonel Dujardin I 
count greatly on the courage and discipline of his 
brigade, and on his own wise measures.’ ” 

Colonel Dujardin bowed. Then ho whisper- 
ed : 

“ Both will alike be wasted.” 

The other colonels waved their hats in tri- 
um))h at the Commander-in-chief’s decision, and 
Raynal’s face showed he looked on Dujardin as 
a sort of spoil-sport, happily defeated. 

“ Well, then, gentlemwi,” said General Raim- 


WHITE LIES. 


loG 

baut, “ we begin by settling the proportion to be 
furnished by your several brigades. Say an 
equal number from each. The sum total shall 
be settled by Colonel Dujardin, who has so long 
and ably baffled the bastion, at this post.” 

Colonel Dujardin bowed stiffly, and not very 
graciously. In his heart he despised these old 
fogies, — compounds of timidity and rashness. 

“ So, how many men in all, colonel ?” 

“The fewer the better,” replied the other, 
solemnly, “since — ” and then discipline tied his 
tongue. 

“ I understand you,” said the old man. 
“ Shall we say eight hundred men ?” 

“I should prefer three hundred men. They 
have made a back door to the bastion, and the 
means of flight at hand will put flight into their 
heads. They will pick off some of our men as 
we go at them. When the rest jump in they 
will jump out, and — ” he paused. 

Why, he knows all about it before it comes,” 
said one of the colonels, naively. 

“ Monsieur, I do I sec the whole operation 
and its result before me, as I see this hand. 
Three hundred men will do.” 

“ But, general," objected Raynal, “you are 
not beginning at the beginning. The first thing 
in these cases is to choose the officer to command 
the storming-party.” 

“ Yes, Raynal, unquestionably ; but you must 
be aware that is a painfid and embarassing part 
of my duty, especially after Colonel Diijardin’s 
remarks ” 

‘•Ah, bah !" cried Raynal. “The colonel is 
prejudiced. He has been digging a thundering 
long mine here : and now you are going to make 
his child useless We none of us like that. But 
when he gets the colors in his hand, and the 
storming-column at his back, his misgivings will 
all go to the wind, and the enemy’^ after them, 
unless he has been committing some crime, and 
is very much changed from what I knew him 
four years ago.” 

“Colonel Raynal,” said one of the other col- 
onels politely but firmly, “do not assume that 
Colonel Dujardin is to lead the column, since 
there are three other claimants. General Raim 
bant is to select from us four.” 

“Yes, gentlemen, and in a service of this 
kind I would feel grateful to you all if you would 
relieve me of that painful duty.” 

“Gentlemen,” said Dujardin, w'ith an imper- 
ceptible sneer, “ the general means to say this ; 
the operation is so glorious and so sure to suc- 
ceed, that he could liardly without partiality as- 
sign the command to either of us four claimants. 
Well, then, let us cast lots.” 

The proposal was received by acclamation. 

“The general will mark a black cross on 
one lot, and he who draws it wins the com- 
mand.” 

The young colonels prepared their lots with al- 
most boyish eagerne.ss. These fiery spirits were 
sick to death of lying and skulking in the trench- 
es. They flung their lots into the hat. 

After them, who should approach the hat, lot 
in hand, but Raynal. 

Dujardin instantly interfered, and held his arm 
as he was in the act of dropping in his lot. 

“ What is the matter ?” said Raynal, sharply. 

“This is our affair. Colonel Raynal.” 

“What, have J no epaulettes?” (angrily). 


“You have epaulettes, but you have no sol- 
diers in this army.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir, — I have yours.” 

“Not till to-morrow.” 

“Why, you would not take such a pettifog- 
ging advantage of an old comrade as that ?” 

“Tell him the day ends at twelve o’clock,” 
said one of the colonels, interested by this strange 
strife. 

“Ah!” cried Raynal, triumphantly; “but 
no,” said he, altering his tone, “ let us leave that 
sort of argument to lawyers. I have come a 
good qiany miles to fight with you, general, and 
now you must decide to pay me this little com- 
pliment on my arrival, or put a bitter affront on 
me, — choose !” 

While the old general hesitated, Camille re- 
plied : 

“Since you take that tone, there can be but 
one answer. You are too great a credit to the 
French army for even an apparent slight to be 
put on you here. The rule, I think, is, that one 
of the privates shall hold the hat. Hallo ! Pri- 
vate Dard, come here — there — hold this hat.” 

“ Yes, colonel ! — Lord, here is my young mis- 
tress’s husband !” 

“ Silence I” 

And they began to draw, and in the act of 
drawing a change of manner was first visible in 
these gay and ardent spirits. 

“ It is not I,” said one, throwing away his lot. 

“Nor I.” 

“ It is I,” said Raynal, quietly ; “ the luck is 
mine.” 

“And I held the hat for you, colonel,” said 
Dard, with foolish triumph. 

“Ah, Raynal, my dear friend,” said General 
Raimbaut, sorrowfully, “it was not worth while 
to come from Egypt for this.” 

Raynal. “ At what o’clock ?” 

Dnjardin . “ A t fi ve. ” 

Raynal (drawing out his watch). “ Then I've 
no time to lose. I must inspect the detachments 
I am to command. But first I have some little 
arrangements to make. Hitherto, general, on 
these occasions, I was a bachelor. New I am 
married.” 

“ Married ? I am sorry for it, Raynal.” 

“ A droll marriage, my old friend ; I’ll tell you 
all about it, — if ever I have the time. It began 
with a purchase, general, and ends with — with a 
bequest, I might as well write now, and so have 
nothing to think of but duty afterwards. Where 
can I write?” 

“ Colonel Dujardin will lend you his tent, I 
am sure.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“And, messieurs,” said Raynal, “if I waste 
time you need not. You can pick me my men 
from your brigades. Give me a strong spice of 
old hands.” 

The colonels withdrew on this, and General 
Raimbaut walked sadly and thoughtfully towards 
the battery. Dujardin and Raynal were left 
alone. 

“This postpones our affair, sir!” 

“ Yes, Raynal.” 

“ Perliajis forever. Have you writing materi- 
als in your tent ?” 

“ Yes ; on the table.” 

“ You are quite sure the bastion is mined ?” 

“ Unfortunately, I am too sure.” 


WHITE LIES. 


157 


* Raynal turned and went to the tent. 

Dujardin’s generosity was up in arras. He 
came eagerly towards him. 

“Raynal, for Heaven’s sake, resign this com- 
mand.”' 

“Allow me to write to my wife, colonel,” was 
the reply, as cold as ice. 

He went in and sat down, and began to 
write. 

Dujardin folded his arms and watched him. 
What he wrote ran thus : 

“A bastion is to he attacked at Jive. I command. 
Colonel Dujardin proposed ice should draw lots, 
and I lost. The service is honorable, but the result 
may, I J'ear, give you some pain. My dear wife, 
it is our fate. I was not to have time to make you 
know, and jierhaps love me. God bless you 

In writing these simple words, Raynal’s hard 
face worked, and his mustache quivered, and 
once he had to clear his eye with his hand to form 
the letters. He, the man of iron. 

He who stood there with folded arms watching 
him saw this, and it stirred all that was great 
and good in that grand, though passionate heart 
of his. 

“ Poor Raynal!” thought he, “ you were nev- 
er like that before on going into action. He is 
loath to die. Ay, and it is a coward’s trick to 
let him die. I shall have her: but shall I have 
her esteem ? What will the army say ? What 
will my conscience say ? Oh, I feel already it 
will gnaw my heart to death ; the ghost of that 
brave fellow — once my dear friend, my rival now 
by no fault of his — will rise between her and me, 
and reproach me with my bloody inheritance. 
The heart never deceives — I feel it now whisper- 
ing in my ear ; skulking captain, white-livered 
soldier, that stand behind a ])arapet while a bet- 
ter man does your work, you assassinate the hus- 
band, but the rival conquers you. There, he puts 
his hand to his eyes. I must speak to him I I 
will speak to him !” 

“ Colonel,” said a low voice, and at the same 
time a hand was laid on his shoulder. 

It was General Raimbaut. The general look- 
ed pale and distressed. 

“ Come apart, colonel, for Heaven’s sake! One 
word while he is writing. Ah ! colonel, that 
was an unlucky idea of yours.” 

“ Of mine, general !” 

“ ’Twas you proposed to cast lots.” 

“Good God! so it was.” 

“I thought, of course, it was to be managed 
so that Raynal should not be the one. Between 
ourselves, what honorable excuse can we make ?” 
“None, general.” 

“Colonel, the whole division will be disgraced, 
and forgive me if I say a large portion of the 
shame will fall on you.” 

“Help me to avert that shame, then,” cried 
Camille, eagerly. 

“ Ah ! that I will : but how ?” 

“Take your pencil and write — ‘I authorize 
Colonel Dujardin to save the honor of the colo- 
nels of the second division.’ ” 

The general hesitated. lie had never seen 
an order so worded. He hesitated for a moment : 
blit at last he took out his pencil and wrote the 
required order, after his own fashion, i.e., in milk 
and water : 


“ On account of the singular ability and courage 
with which Colonel Du)ardin has conducted the op- 
erations against the Bastion St. Andre, a disa'e- 
tionary power is given him at the moment of assault 
to carry into effect such measures as, without inter- 
fering with the commander-in-chief s order, may 
sustain his own credit, and that of the other colonels 
of the second division. 

“ Raimbaut, General of Division.” 

Camille put the paper into his bosom. 

“Now, general, you may leave all to me. I 
swear to you, Raynal shall not die! — shall not 
lead this assault.” 

“Your hand, colonel. You are an honor to 
the French armies. How will you do it ?” 

“ Leave it to me, general, it shall be done.” 

“I feel it will, my noble fellow : but, alas ! I 
fear not without risking some valuable life or 
other, most likely your own. Tell me.” 

“General, I refuse !” 

“You refuse me, sir?” 

“Yes; this order gives me a discretionary 
power. I will hand back the order at your com- 
mand ; but modify it I will not. Come, mon- 
sieur, you veteran generals have been unjust to 
me, and listened to me too little all through this 
siege, but at last you have honored me. This 
order is the greatest honor that was over dono 
me since I wore a sword.” 

“ My poor colonel ! ” 

“ Let me* wear it intact, and carry it to mv 
grave !” 

“ Say no more ! One word, is there any thing 
on earth I can do for you, my brave soldier ?’’ 

“Yes, general. Be so kind as to retire to your 
quarters ; there are reasons why you ought not 
to be near this post in half an hour.” 

“I go. Is there nothing else?” 

“Well, general, ask the good priest Ambrose 
to pray for all those who shall die doing their 
duty to their country this afternoon.” 

They parted. General Raimbaut looked back 
more than once at the firm, intrepid figure that 
stood there, with folded arms, unflinching, on the 
edge of the grave. But he never took his eye 
off Raynal. The next minute Raynal’s sad let- 
ter was finished, and he walked out of the tent, 
and confronted the man he had challenged to 
single combat. 

I have mentioned elsewhere that Colonel Du- 
jardin had eyes strangely compounded of battle 
and love, of the dove and the hawk. And these, 
softened by a noble act he meditated, now rest- 
ed on Raynal with a strange expression of 
warmth and goodness. This strange gaze struck 
Raynal, so far at least as this : he saw no hostile 
eye. He was glad of that, for his own heart was 
calmed by the solemn prospect before him. 

“ We, too, have a little account to settle before 
I order out the men,” said he, calmly, “and I 
can’t give you long credit. I am pressed for 
time.” 

Now, even while he was uttering these few 
words, quick as lightning, Camille resolved to 
let Raynal have his own way. What on earth 
did it matter to him (Camille) ! And he felt a 
sudden and natural longing to take this man’.s 
hand : not because Raynal had once been his 
benefactor, but because he was going to be Ray- 
nal’s benefactor. 

“And things are changed, Dujardin. When 


158 


WHITE LIES. 


duty sounds the recall, a soldier’s heart leaves 
private quarrels. See ! I come to you without 
anger and ill-will. Just now my voice was loud, 
my manner, I dare say, offensive, and mena- 
cing even, and that always tempts a brave fellow 
like you to resist. But now, you see, I am harm- 
less as a woman. We are alone. Humbug to 
the winds ! I know that you are the only man 
fit to command a division in this army. I know 
that, when you say the assault of that bastion is 
death, death it is. To the point, then. Now 
that my manner is no longer irritating, now that 
I am going to die, Camille Dujardin, my old 
comrade, have you the heart to refuse me ? am 
I to die unhappy?” 

“I will do whatever you like.” 

“You will marry that poor girl, then ?” 

“Yes ! yes !” 

“Aha ! did not I always say he was a good 
fellow ? Clinch the nail ; give me your hon- 
or.” 

“ I give you my honor to marry her, if I live.” 

“You take a load off me. Heaven will re- 
w^ard you. In one hour those poor women, 
whose support I had promised to be, will lose 
their protector : but I give them another in you. 
We shall not leave that family in tears, Laure in 
shame, and your child without a name.” 

“ My child ? Raynal ?” and he looked amazed. 
What new deception was this ? 

“Poor little fellow! I surprised him in his 
cradle; his mother and Josephine were rocking 
him, and singing over him. Oh, it was a scene, 
I can tell you. My poor wife had been ill for 
some time, and was so weakened by it, that I 
frightened her into a fit, stealing a march on her 
that way. She fainted away. Perhaps it is as 
well she did : fori — I did not know what to think : 
it looked ugly: but while she lay at our feet 
insensible, I forced the truth from Laure ; she 
owned the boy was hers.” 

While Raynal told him this strange story, Ca- 
mille turned hot and cold. First came a thrill 
of glowing joy. He had the clue to all this. He 
was a father. The child was Josephine’s and 
his. The next moment he froze within. So Jo- 
sephine had not only gulledher husband, but him 
too. She had refused him the sad consolation 
of knowing he had a child. Cruelty, calcula- 
tion, and baseness unexampled ! 

Here was a creature who could sacrifice any 
thing and any body to her comfort, to the peace 
and sordid smoothness of her domestic life. She 
stood between two men — a thing ! Between two 
truths — a double lie. 

His heart, in one moment, turned against her 
like a stone. A musket bullet through the body 
does not turn life to death quicker than Raynal 
turned his rival’s love to hatred and scorn : that 
love which neither wounds, absence, prison, nor 
even her want of constancy had prevailed to 
shake ! 

“ Out of my bosom !” he cried, — “ out of it, 
in this world and the next I” 

He forgot, in his lofty rage, who stood beside 
him. 

“What?— what?” 

“ No matter. Give me your hand, comrade.’’ 

“ There.” 

“I esteem you, Raynal. You arc truth, you 
arc a man, and deserve a better lot. ” 

“ Don’t say that,” replied Raynal, quite misun- 


derstanding him. “ It is a soldier’s end : I ne\'cr 
desired nor hoped a better, — only, of course, I 
feel a little regret. You are a happy fellow, to 
have a child and to live to see it and her.” 

“ Oh yes ; I am very happy,” replied the poor 
fellow, his lip quivering. 

“Watch over those poor women, comrade, 
and sometimes speak to them of me. It is fool- 
ish, but we like to be remembered.” 

“ Yes ; but do not let us speak of that. Ray- 
nal, you and I were lieutenants together ; do you 
remember saving my life in the Arno ?” 

“ Yes ; now you mention it, I do.” 

“Promise me, if 3'ou should live, to remem- 
ber not our quarrel of to-day, nor any thing ; 
but only those early days, and this afternoon.'' 

“I do.” 

“ Your hand, dear Rajmal.” 

“There, old comrade, there.” 

They wrung one another’s hands, and turned 
away and hid their faces from each other, for 
their eyes were moist. 

‘ ‘ This won’t do, comrade ; I must go. I shall 
attack from your position. So I shall go down 
the line, and bring the men up. Meantime pick 
me your detachment. Give me a good spice of 
veterans. I shall get one word with you before 
we go out. God bless 3'ou !” 

“ God bless you, Raynal !” 

The moment Raynal was gone, Camille beck- 
oned a lieutenant to him, and ordered half the 
brigade to form in a strong column on both sides 
Death’s Alley. 

His eye fell upon Private Dard. 

“Come here,” said he. 

Dard came and saluted. 

“ Have you any body at Beaurepaire that 
would be sorry if you were killed ?” 

“Yes, colonel: .Tacintha, that used to make 
your broth, colonel.” 

“Take this line to Colonel Raynal. You will 
find him with the 12th Brigade.” 

He wrote a few lines in pencil, folded them, 
and Dard went off with them, little dreaming that 
the colonel of his brigade was taking the trou-- 
ble to save his life because he came from Beau- 
repaire. Colonel Dujardin then went into his tent 
and closed the aperture, and took the good book 
the priest had given him, and prayed humbly, 
and forgave all the world. 

Then he sat down, his head in his hands, and 
thought of his child, and how hard it was he 
must die and never see him. One sad sob at this, 
— one only. 

Then he lighted a candle and sealed up his 
orders of valor, and wrote a line begging that 
they might be sent to his sister. He also sealed 
up his purse and left a memorandum that the 
contents should be given to disabled soldiers of 
his brigade, upon their being invalided. 

Then he took out Josephine’s letter. “ Poor 
coward,” he said, “let me not be unkind. See, 

I burn your letter, lest it should be found, and 
disturb the peace you prize so highly. 1 too shall 
soon be at peace, thank God !” He lighted it, 
and dropped it on the ground : it burned slowly 
a^va3^ He e3-ed it, despairingly. “Ay! 3'ou 
perish, last record of an unhapj)y love : and, as 
you pass away, so I am going,— my soul to its 
Creator, my body to dust,— ay, poor letter, even 
so pass away my life wasted ‘by generals not fit 
to command a corporal’s guard,— my hopes of 


WHITE LIES. 


glory, and my dreams of love, — it all ends to- 
day ; at nine-and-twenty.” 

He put his white handkerchief to his eyes. 
Josephine had given it him. He cried a little, 
not at dying, but at seeing his life thrown away. 

When he had done crying, he put his white 
handkerchief in his bosom, and the whole man 
was transformed beyond language to express. 
Powder does not change more when it catches 
fire. He rose that moment, and went like a flash 
of lightning out of the tent. The next, he came 
down like a falcon between the lines of the strong 
column in Death’s Alley. 

“Attention,” cried the sergeants, “the colo- 
nel !” 

There was a dead silence, for the bare sight 
of that erect and inspired flgure made the men’s 
bosoms thrill with the certainty of great deeds 
to come : the light of battle was in his eye. No 
longer the moody colonel ; but a thunderbolt of 
war, red-hot, and waiting to be lanched. 

“Officers, sergeants, soldiers, a word with 
you !” 

La Croix. “Attention I” 

“ Do you know what passed here five minutes 
ago ?” 

“ The attack of the bastion was settled !” cried 
a captain. 

“It was, and who was to lead the assault? 
do vou know that ? ’ 

“No !” 

“A colonel from Egypt.” 

A groan from the men. 

“ With detachments from the other brigades.” 

“ Ah!” an angry roar. 

Colonel Dujardin walked quickly down be- 
tween the two lines, looking with his fiery eye 
into the men’s eyes on his right. Then he came 
back on the other side, and, as he went, he light- 
ed those men’s eyes with his own. It was a torch 
passing along a line of ready gas-lights. 

“ The work to us 1” he cried, in a voice like a 
clarion, that fired the hearts as his eye had fired 
the eyes, — “the triumph to strangers! our fa- 
tigues and our losses have not gained the brigade 
the honor of going out at those fellows that have 
killed so many of our comrades.” 

A fierce groan from the men. 

“What! shall the colors of another brigade 
and not ours fly from that bastion this after- 
noon ?” 

“ No ! no !” in a roar like thunder. 

“ Ah ! you are of my mind. Attention ! the 
attack is fixed for five o’clock. 

“ Suppose you and I w'ere to carry the bastion 
ten minutes before the colonel from Egypt can 
bring his men upon the ground ?” 

A fierce roar of joy and laughter : the strange 
laughter of veterans and born invincibles. 

“ That was a question I put to your hearts, — 
your answer?” 

The answ'er was a yell of exulting assent, 
but it was half drowned by another response, 
the thunder of the impatient drums, and the 
rattle of fixing bayonets. 

The colonel told off a party to the battery. 

“ Level the guns at the top tier. Fire at my 
signal, and keep firing over our heads, till you 
see our colors on the place.” 

lie then darted to the head of the column, 
which instantly formed behind him in the centre 
of Death’s Alley. 


159 

“ The colors ! No hand but mine shall hold 
them to-day.” 

They were instantly brought him, his left 
hand shook them free in the afternoon sun. 

A deep murmur of joy for the old hands at 
i the now unwonted sight. Out flashed his 
sword like steel lightning. He waved it to the 
battery. 

Bang! bang! bang! bang! went the cannon, 
and the smoke rolled over the trenches. At the 
same moment up went the colors waving, and 
the colonel’s clarion voice pealed high above 
all. 

“Twenty-fourth, demi brigade, — forward! !” 

They went so swiftly out of the trenches that 
they were not seen through their own smoke 
until they had run some sixty yards. No soon- 
er were they seen coming on like devils through 
their own smoke, than two thousand muskets 
were levelled at them from all the Prussian line. 
It was not a rattle of small-arms, — it was a crash : 
and the men fell fast: but in a moment they 
were seen to spread out like a fan, and to offer 
less mark, and, when the fan closed again, it 
half encircled the bastion. It was a French at- 
tack. Part swarmed at it in front like bees, 
part swept round the glacis and flanked it. 
They were seen to fall in numbers, shot down 
from the embrasures. But the living took the 
place of the dead : and the fight raged evenly 
there. Where are the colors? Towards the 
rear there. The colonel and a hundred men 
are fighting hand to hand with the Prussians, 
who have charged out at the back doors of the 
bastion. Success there ! and the bastion must 
fall, — both sides know this. 

All in a moment the colors disappeared. 
There was a groan from the French lines. No ! 
there they were again, and close under the 
bastion. 

And now in front the attack w'as so hot that oft- 
en the Prussian gunners were seen to jump down, 
driven from their posts : and the next moment 
a fierce hurrah from the rear told that the 
French had won some great advantage there. 
The fire slacking told a similar tale, and present- 
ly down came the Prussian flag-staff. That 
might be an accident. A few moments of 
thirsting expectation, and up went the colors of 
the 24th Brigade upon the Bastion St. Andre. 

The whole French army raised a shout that 
rent the sky, and their cannon began to play 
on the Prussian lines, and between the bastion 
and the nearest fort, to prevent a recapture. 

All in a moment shot from the earth a cubic 
acre of fire where last the bastion was seen : it 
carried up a heavy mountain of red and black 
smoke that looked solid as marble. There was 
a heavy, sullen, tremendous explosion, that snuff- 
ed out the sound of the cannon, and paralyzed 
the French and Prussian gunners’ hands, and 
checked the very beating of their hearts. Thirt}'- 
thousand pounds of gunpowder were in that 
awful explosion. Then war itself held its breath, 
and both armies, like peaceful spectators, gazed 
wonder-struck, terror-struck. Great hell seem- 
ed to have burst through the earth’s crust, and 
to be rushing at heaven. Huge stones, cannon, 
corpses, and limbs of soldiers, w'ere seen driven 
or falling through the smoke. Some of these 
last even came quite clear of the ruins, ay, into 
the French and Prussian lines, that even the 


IGO 


WHITE LIES. 


veterans put tlieir hands to their eyes, Raynal 
felt something patter on him from the sky, — it 
was blood, — a comrade’s, perhaps. Oh ! war ! 
war ! 

The smoke cleared. Where a moment before 
the great bastion stood and fought was a mon- 
strous pile of blackened, bloody stones and tim- 
bers, with dismounted cannon sticking up here 
and there. 

And, rent and crushed to atoms beneath the 
smoking mass, lay the relics of the gallant bri- 
gade and their victorious colors. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A FEW wounded soldiers of the brigade lay 
still and feigned death till dusk. Then they 
crept back to the trenches. These had all been 
struck down or disabled short of the bastion. 
Of those that had taken the place no one came 
home. 

Raynal, after the first stupefaction, pressed 
hard and even angrily for an immediate assault 
on the whole Prussian line. Not they. It was 
on paper that the assault should be at daybreak 
to-morrow. Litera scripta Vianet. This sort of 
leader can not improvise. 

Rage and grief in his heart, Raynal waited, 
chafing like a blood-horse, in the trenches till 
five minutes past midnight. He was then com- 
mander of the brigade, gave his orders, and took 
thirty men out to creep up to the wreck of the 
bastion, and find the late colonel’s body. 

Going for so pious a purpose, he was reward- 
ed by an important discovery. The whole 
Prussian lines had been abandoned since sunset, 
and, mounting cautiously on the ramparts, Ray- 
nal saw the town too was evacuated, and lights 
and other indications on a rising ground behind 
it convinced him that the Prussians were in full 
retreat, probably to effect that junction Avith 
other forces which the assault, he had recom- 
mended would have rendered impossible. 

They now lighted lanterns, and searched all 
over and round the bastion for the poor colonel. 
In the rear of the bastion they found many 
French soldiers, most of whom had died by the 
bayonet. The Prussian dead had all been car- 
ried off. 

Here they found the talkative Sergeant La 
Croix. The poor fellow was silent enough now. 
A terrible sabre-cut on the skull. The colonel 
was not there. Raynal groaned, and led the 
way on to the bastion. The ruins still smoked. 
Seven or eight bodies were discovered by an arm 
or a foot protruding through the masses of ma- 
sonry. Of these some were Prussians. A proof 
that some devoted hand had fired the train, and ' 
destroyed both friend and foe. I 

They found the tube of Long Tom sticking ' 
up, just as he had shown over the battlements j 
that glorious day, with this exception, that a 
great piece was knocked off his lip, and the slice 
ended in a long broad crack. 

The soldiers looked at this. “ That is our bul- 
lets’ work,” said they. Then one old veteran 
touched his cap, and told Raynal, gravely, he 
knew where their beloved colonel was. 


“Dig here, to the bottom,” said he. “//g 
lies beneath his wo7-k.” 

Improbable and superstitious as this was, the 
hearts of the soldiers assented to it. 

Presently there was a joyful cry outside the 
bastion. A rush was made thither. But it 
proved to be only Dard, who had discoA'cred that 
Sergeant La Croix’s heart still beat. 

They took him up carefully, and carried him 
gently into camp. To Dard’s delight the sur- 
geon pronounced him curable. For all that, he 
w.as three days insensible, and after that unfit 
for duty. So they sent him home invalided, with 
a hundred francs out of the poor colonel’s purse. 

Raynal reported the evacuation of the place, 
and that Colonel Dujardin was buried under the 
bastion. He then bound a black scarf across his 
sick heart, and rode out of the camp. 

And how came Jean Raynal to turn his back 
on war ? 

His rival was the cause. 

The words Camille had scratched with a pen- 
cil, and sent him from the edge of the grave, 
were few, but great. 

“A dead man takes you once more by the 
hand. My last thought, thank God, is France. 
For her sake and mine, Raynal, go for Gener- 
al Bonaparte. Tell him, from a dying soldier, 
the Rhine is a river to these generals, but to him 
a field of glory. He will lay out our lives, not 
waste them. Go!” 

The 24th Brigade, thinned already by hard 
service, was reduced to a file or two by the 
Sampson bastion. 

It was incorporated with the 12th, and Ray- 
nal rode heaA^y at heart to Paris. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“ IIoAV is my poor Josephine to-day, doctor ?” 

“ Much better ; she tells me she slept without 
laudanum last night : the first night this ten days. 
Nature will win the day, — with my assistance/’ 

“No, doctor ; not unless you can cure her of 
that Avhich made her sicken.” 

“ Sun, air, and exercise must complete the 
work,” said the doctor, evasively. 

“ Can they cure her of her sorrow?” 

“ What sorrow ?” 

“ She has a secret sorrow’, and so have yon, 
Laure.” 

“ I ! mamma ?” 

“Oh ! I know jmu think me very blind, but 
there is something mysterious going on here, 
which peeps through all your precautions.” 

“What do you mean, mamma ?” 

“ I mean, Laure, that my patience is worn out 
at last. I am tired of playing the part of a stat- 
ue among you. Raynal’s gloomy air as he left 
us ; Josephine ill ever since, bursting into tears 
at every word ; Laure pale and changed, iiiding 
an unaccountable sadness under a forced smile: 
don’t interrupt me, Laure ! Edouard, who was 
almost like a son, gone off without a word. Nev- 
er comes near us !” 

“ He is gone a journey, mamma.” 

“ And not returned ?” 

“No !” 

“ Is that so, doctor?” 

“ I believe so,” replied the doctor. “ I called 


WHITE LIES. 


ICl 


on him yesterday, and the servant said he was 
away. ” 

“Good!” said the baroness. “ It is clear I 
am to learn nothing from you two ; but it does 
not follow I will not learn from some one else.” 

The doctor and Laure exchanged an uneasy 
look. 

“This uncomfortable smiling and unreason- 
able crying : these appearances of the absent, 
and disappearances of the present.” 

“Disappearances of the present, mamma? 
What do you mean ?” 

“ No matter. All these mysteries of Beaure- 
paire will, perhaps, take less time to penetrate 
than those of Udolpho.” 

“Really,” said St. Aubin, quietly, “ I did not 
think my old friend such an adept at building 
mare’s nests, and tormenting herself.” 

“ It is easy to understand,” replied the baron- 
ess. “ I am an old woman. I have seen crook- 
ed. I hear amiss. I understand by contraries. 
For all that, monsieur, with your permission, I 
will say two words to my daughter.” 

“ I retire, madame.” 

Laure nerved herself for what was to come : 
but the trial in store for her was a very different 
one from what she expected. She was bracing 
herself up against a severe interrogatory. 

Instead of that, her mother sat down, and 
burst into tears. 

“Oh, mamma! my sweet mamma!” cried 
Laure, and was on her knees at her mother’s 
feet in a moment. 

“My girl,” sobbed the old lady, “may you 
never know what a mother feels, who finds her- 
self shut out from her daughters’ hearts!” 

“ Oh, mamma ! are you not in ray heart?” 

“ No ! or I should be in your confidence. 
Sometimes I think it is my fault. The age I 
was born in was strict. A mother nowadays 
seems to be a sort of elder sister. In my day 
she was something more. Yet I loved my moth- 
er as well or better than I did my sisters. But 
it is not so with those I have borne in my bo- 
som, and nursed upon my knee.” 

Laure’ssob at this became so wild and despair- 
ing that the baroness was afraid to say too much, 
though her bosom was too full of pent-up grief. 
Poor old lady, her heart had long been sore, but 
pride had kept her silent. 

“Come, Laure,”.she said, “do not cry like 
that. It is not too late to take your poor old 
mother into your confidence. Why is this mys- 
tery and this sorrow on us? How comes it I in- 
tercept, at every instant, glances that were nev- 
er intended for me ? The very air is loaded 
with signals and secrecy. What does it all 
mean ?” 

No answer but sobs. 

“ Is some deceit then going on ?” 

No answer but sobs. 

“I ask you once more: I will never descend 
to ask you again : give me some better reply than 
these sullen sobs. You will not ? Well, since 
you will not tell me any thing — ” 

“ I can not, — I have nothing to tell.” 

“Will you do something for me, mademoi- 
selle ?” 

“ Oh yes, mamma! any thing, every thing.” 

“ I shall not ask much. I should hesitate now 
to draw largely on your affection. It is only to 
write a letter.” 


' Laure jum*p«d up eagerly, and went zealously 
I for the paper and ink, thankful to her mother for 
giving her something she could do for her. 

“Now write.” 

Laure took the pen with alacrity. 

“ Dear Monsieur Riviere !" 

“ Oh, mamma ! is it to him ?"’ 

“ Oblige me by coming here at your very earliest 
convenience. Is it written ?” 

“ Yes !” faltered Laure, trembling. 

“ Then sign my name.” 

“ Oh, thank you, mamma !” 

“Fold it, — address it to his lodgings.” 

“ Yes, there. Shall J send Jacintha with it ?” 

“No, mademoiselle,* you will not send Jacin- 
tha with it. I trust neither her nor you, — give 
it me. No, I trust neither the friend of twenty 
years, nor the servant that staid by me in ad- 
versity, nor the daughter I suffered for and 
nursed. And why don’t I trust you? You have 
told me a lie! I saw Edouard Riviere in the 
park two days ago, — I saw him. My old eyes 
are feeble, — but they are not liars. I saw him. 
Send my breakfast to my own room. I come 
of an ancient race ; I could not sit with liars. 
I should forget courtesy, — you would all see my 
scorn in my face.” 

She went out, with the letter in her hand, 
leaving Laure sick and terrified at these stern 
words from lips so beloved. 

Edouard Riviere fell, in one night, from hap- 
piness such as dull souls can not imagine to deep 
and hopeless misery. 

He lost that which, to every heart capable of 
loving, is the greatest earthly good : the woman 
he adored, — and with her he lost those prime 
treasures of the soul, — belief in human goodness 
and in female purity. 

To him there could be no more in nature a 
candid eye, a virtuous, ready-mantling cheek. 
Frailty and treachery had worn these signs of 
virtue and nobility too skillfully for human eye 
to detect : his heart was broken and his faith was 
gone. 

For whom could he now trust or believe in ? 
Here was a creature whose virtues seemed to 
make frailty impossible : treachery, doubly im- 
possible : a creature whose faults — for faults she 
had — had seemed as opposite to treachery as her 
very virtues were. Yet she was all frailty and 
lies. 

He passed in that one night of anguish from 
youth to age. He went about his business like 
a leaden thing. His food was tasteless. His 
life seemed ended. Nothing appeared what it 
had been. The very landscape seemed cut in 
stone, and he a stone in the middle of it, and his 
heart a stone in him. At times across that 
heavy heart came gushes of furious rage and bit- 
ter mortification. For his vanity had been stab- 
bed as fiercely as his love. “ Georges Dandin !” 
he w'ould cry. “You said well, old man. I 
wondered at your word then. Georges Dandin ! 
curse her! curse her!” But love and misery 
overpowered these heats, and froze him to stone 
again. 

The poor boy pined and pined. His clothes 
hung loose about him ; his face was so drawn 
with suffering you would not have known him. 
He hated company. The things he was expect- 
ed to talk about ! — he with his crushed heart. 


11 


1G2 


WHITE LIES. 


lie could not. He -would not. lie shunned all | 
the world ; he went alone like a wounded deer. 
The good doctor, on his return from Paris, call- 
ed on him to see if he was ill : since he had not 
come for days to the chateau. He saw the doc- 
tor coming, and bade the servant say he was not 
in the village. 

He drew down the blind, that he might never 
see the chateau again. He drew it up again : 
lie could not exist without seeing it. “ She will 
be miserable, too,” he cried, gnashing his teeth. 
“She will see whether she has chosen well.” 
At other times all his courage, and his hatred, 
and his wounded vanity, were drowned in his 
love and its despair, and then he bowed his head, 
and sobbed and cried as if his heart would burst. 
This very day he was so sobbing with his head 
on the table when his landlady tapped at his 
door. He started up, and turned his head away i 
from the door. 

“A young woman from Beaurepaire, mon- 
sieur!” 

“ From Beaurepaire ?’’ His heart gave a fu- 
rious leap. “ Show her in.” 

He wiped his eyes and seated himself at a 
table, and, all in a flutter, pretended to be the 
State’s. 

It was not Jacintha, as he expected, but the 
other servant. She made a low reverence, cast 
a look of admiration on him, and gave him a 
letter. His eye darted on it : his hand trembled 
as he took it. He turned away again to open it. 
He forced himself to say, in a tolerably calm 
voice, “ I will send an answer.” 

After the first violent emotion, a great strug- 
gle. Her handwriting. Her mother’s letter. 
“Ah! I see ! The old woman is to be drawn 
into it, too. She is to help to make Georges 
Dandin of me. I will go. I will baffle them 
all. I will expose this nest of depravity, all 
ceremony on the surface, and voluptuousness and 
treachery below. O God ! who could believe 
that creature never loved me ! They shall none 
of them see my weakness. Their benefactor 
shall be still their superior. They shall see me 
cold as ice, and bitter as gall.” 

He made his toilet with care, and took his hat 
and went to Beaurepaire as slowly as he used to 
go quickly once. 

In the present state of things at Beaurepaire 
we must go back a step. 

When Josephine and Laure broke from that 
startled slumber that followed the exhaustion of 
that troubled night, Laure was by far the more 
wretched of the two. She had not only dishon- 
ored herself, but stabbed the man she loved. 

Josephine, on the other hand, was exhausted, 
but calm. The fearful escape she had had soft- 
ened down by contrast her more distant ter- | 
rors. 

She was beginning to shut her eyes again, and i 
let herself drift. Above all, the glimpse of her ^ 
boy comforted her, and the thought that in three 
weeks she could have him beside her in Paris, j 

This deceitful calm of the heart only lasted 
three days. 

Carefully encouraged by Laure, it was destroy- 
ed by Jacintha. 

Jacintha, conscious that she had betrayed her 
part, was almost heart-broken. She, ashamed 
to appear before her young mistress, and cow- ■ 


ard-like, wanted to avoid knowing et'cn how 
much harm she had done. 

She pretended toothache, bound up her face, 
and never stirred from the kitchen. But she 
was not to escape : the other servant came down 
with a message : 

“ Madame Raynal wanted to see her directly.” 

She came, quaking, and found Josephine all 
alone. 

Josephine rose to meet her, and, casting a fur- 
tive glance round the room first, threw her arms 
round Jacintha’s neck and embraced her with 
many tears. 

“ Was ever fidelity like yours ? how conld you 
do it, Jacintha? and how can I ever repay it? 
You arc my superior ; it is base for me to accept 
such a sacrifice from any woman !” 

Jacintha was so confounded she did not know 
what to say. But it was a mystification that 
could not endure long between two women, who 
were both deceived by a third. Between them 
they soon discovered that it must have been 
Laure who had sacrificed herself. 

“And Edouard has never been here since.’’ 

“ And never will, madame.” 

“ Yes, he shall ! there must be some limit even 
to my feebleness and my sister’s devotion. You 
shall take a line to him from me. I will write it 
this moment.” 

The letter was written. But it was never sent. 
Laure surprised Josephine and Jacintha togeth- 
er: saw a letter was being written, asked to see 
it ; on Josephine’s hesitating, snatched it out of 
her hands and tore it to pieces, and told Jacin- 
tha to leave she room. She hated the sight of 
poor Jacintha, who had slept at the very moment 
when all depended on her watchfulness. 

“You were going to send to him unknown to 
me.” 

“ Forgive me, Laure.” 

“Oh, Josephine ! is it come to this ? "Would 

YOU DECEIVE ME ?” 

“You HAVE DECEIVED ME ! Ycs ! it lias 
come to that. I know all. I will not consent 
to destroy all I love.” 

She then begged hard for leave to send the 
letter. 

Laure gave an impetuous refusal. 

“ What could you say to him ? foolish woman, 
don’t you know him, and Ids vanitv ? When you 
had exj)Osed yourself to him, and showed him I 
was nothing Avorse than a liar who had insulted 
him, — do you think he would forgive me ? No ! 
this is to make light of my love, — to make me 
waste the sacrifice I have made. I feel that 
sacrifice as much as you do, more perhaps, and 
I would rather die in a convent than waste that 
night of shame and agony. Come, promise me, 
no more attempts of that kind, or we are sisters 
no more, friends no more, one heart and one 
blood no more.” 

The weaker nature, weakened still more by 
ill health and grief, w'as terrified into submis- 
sion, or rather temporized. 

“Kiss me then,” said Jose])hinc, “and love 
me to the end.” 

Laure kissed her with many sighs, but Jose- 
phine smiled. Laure eyed her with suspicion. 
That deep smile. What did it mean ? Site had 
formed some resolution. She is going to de- 
ceive me somehow'. 

From that day Laure watched her like a spy. 


WHITE LIES. 163 


Confidence was gone between them. Suspicion 
took its place. 

Laure was riglit. The moment Josephine saw 
that Edouard’s happiness and Laure ’s were to be 
sacrificed for her whom nothing could make hap- 
py, the poor thing said to herself, “ I can die.” 

Therefore she smiled. 

The doctor gave her laudanum : he found she 
could not sleep : and he thought it all-important 
that slie should sleep. 

Josephine, instead of taking these small doses, 
saved them all up, secreted them in a phial, and 
so, from the sleep of a dozen nights, collected 
the eternal sleep ; and now she was very tran- 
quil. This young creature that could not bear 
to give pain to any one else prepared her own 
death with a calm resolution the heroes of our 
sex have not often equalled. It was so little a 
thing to her to strike Josephine. Death would 
save her honor, would spare her the frightful 
alternative of deceiving her husband, or of tell- 
ing him she was another’s. “Poor Eaynal,” 
said she to herself, “it is too cruel to tie him to 
a woman who can never be to him what he de- 
serves. Laure would then prove her innocence 
to Edouard. A few tears for a weak, loving soul, 
and they would all be happy and forget her.” 

While she was in this mind, Raynal wrote 
from Paris that he was to be expected at any 
moment; “And this time,” he added, “1 stay 
a month.” 

Josephine gave a shudder that my female 
readers can understand. This letter was the 
last word in her death-warrant. 

Her days being now counted, and her very 
hours uncertain, the mother’s heart could not 
leave the world without putting her poor boy 
into some loving hand, and securing him kind 
treatment. And so it happened that she came 
from her room to open her heart to Laure just 
after the baroness went out with those bitter 
words. And when I say open her heart, I am 
wrong. Her fate was still to conceal all or a 
part. Laure was quick and suspicious. Laure 
would never consent to her dying. All she dare 
do was to say something to her now, that poor 
Laure should understand when she should be 
gone, and say, “This was my poor lost sister’s 
last request.” 

Laure, then, stricken to the heart by her moth- 
er’s words, was sitting weeping in the tapestried 
room when Josephine came out to her, and sat 
down beside her with a tender smile, and drew 
her to her bosom. 

“ I am glad I have found you alone. You are 
crying, love?” 

“Mamma has scolded me so; and she has 
written to Edouard ; but you have something to 
say to me ?” 

“ Indeed I have, but not now. It is no time to 
try your courage, poor girl ! You weep !” 

“I can always find courage to defend you, 
Josephine ;” and she dried her eyes directly. 

“It is not that kind of courage, sister. Ah ! 
me ! was I born to give pain ?” 

“Speak, Josephine !” 

“ Give me your hand. Bo brave, — my poor 
Laure, — this it is. I am worse than I seem. 
I have something here at my heart that will try 
the poor doctor’s skill. And you know’, love, 
life at the best is but a little candle that a breath 
puts out.” 


Laure said nothing, but she trembled and 
watched her keenly. 

“ It is about my little Edouard. What would 
you do with him if — if any thing should happen 
to me ?” 

“ What w'ould I do with him? He is mine. 
I should be his mother. Oh ! what words are 
these ! my heart ! my heart !” 

“ No, Laure ; some day you w’ill be married, and 
owe all the mother to your children, and Edou- 
ard is not ours only. He belongs to some one 
I have seemed unkind to. Perhaps he thinks 
me heartless. For I am a foolish woman ; I 
don’t know how to be virtuous, yet show a man 
my heart. But then he will understand me and 
forgive me. Laure, dear, you w’ill w'rite to him. 
He will come to you. You w’ill go together to 
the place where I shall be sleeping. You will 
show him my heart. You will tell him all my 
long love that lasted to the end. You need not 
blush to tell him all. I have no right. Then 
you will give him his poor Josephine’s boy, and 
you will say to him, ‘ She never loved but you : 
she gives you all that is left of her, her child. 
She prays you not to give him a bad mother.’ ” 

Poor soul ! this was her one bit of little, gentle 
jealousy: but it made her eyes stream. She 
would have put out her hand from the tomb to 
keep her boy’s father single all his life. 

“Oh, my Josephine, — my darling sister,” 
cried Laure, “ w’hy do you speak of death ? Do 
you meditate a crime?” 

“ No ; but it was on my heart to say it : it has 
done me good,” 

“At least, take me to your bosom, my w'ell- 
beloved, that I may not see your tears.” 

“There — tears ? No, you have lightened my 
heart. Bless you ! bless you !” 

The sisters tw’ined their bosoms together in a 
long gentle embrace. You might have taken 
them for two angels that flow’ed together in one 
love, — but for the tears. 

They remained silently one for some minutes. 
Tlien they w’ent to Josephine’s room. Laure, 
however, was soon summoned out by the baron- 
ess. 

She came, full of misgivings, but the mood of 
the baroness had changed. A sly benevolence 
lurked now in her features. 

“Sit down by me on the sofa. Now, made- 
moiselle, confess ! There has been a tiff between 
you and Edouard : a lover’s quarrel ?” 

“Y — y — yes, mamma.” 

“ And if I make it up for you ?’’ 

“ Not for the world ! — not for the world !” 

“ Nonsense, child !” 

“Monsieur Riviere,” was announced by the 
new servant. 

Laure started up to fly. 

“ Sit still,” said the baroness, imperatively. 

Edouard came in, w’an and agitated. 

The baroness waved him to a seat, and took 
one herself, leaving Laure on the sofa. 

The effrontery of Laure in facing him before 
her mother disgusted and enraged Edouard. 
“ She will rue it,” said he, bitterly. 

“You don’t see Laure,” said the baroness, 
quietly. 

He had not taken any notice of her. 

Edouard stammered some excuse, rose, and 
bowed to Laure. 

Now in performing this cold salutation he 


WHITE LIES. 


IGI 

caught sight of her face : it was pale, and her 
eyes red. She was unhappy then. 

“Monsieur Riviere,” said the baroness, cere- 
moniously and slowly, “you have not honored 
us with a visit lately.” 

“ Excuse me, madame, I have been much oc- 
cupied.” 

“Familiar as you were in the house, and es- 
teemed by us, you must have a motive for aban- 
doning us so suddenly. Make me your confi- 
dante. What is vour motive? Is it Laure’s 
fault?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“Oh yes, mamma, it is my fault. My tem- 
per!” and she cast a piteous look of supplication 
on Edouard. 

“Do not interfere, Laure : let me hear M. Ri- 
viere.” 

“Madame, my temper and Mademoiselle 
Laure’s could not accord.” 

“Why, her temper is charming; it is joyous, 
equal, and gentle.” 

“Y"ou misunderstand me, madame ; I do not 
reproach Mademoiselle Laure. It is I who am 
to blame.” 

“For what?” inquired the baroness, dryly. 

“For not being able to make her love me.” 

“ Oh, that is it ! She did not love you ?” 

“ Ask herself, madame.” 

“Laure,” said the baroness, her eye now be- 
ginning to twinkle, “ are you really guilty of 
such a want of discrimination ? Didn’t you'love 
monsieur ?” 

“No, mamma. I did not love Monsieur 
Edounrd.” 

Edouard groaned. 

“You tell me that, and you are crying !” 

“ She is crying, madame? ? ! !” 

“ Why you see she is. Come, I see how this 
will end.” 

“Where are you going, mamma?” 

“To my other daughter. Alas! her case is 
worse than yours. Monsieur Edouard, forgive 
me if I leave you a moment with the enemy. 
I hope, in sj)ite of her, to find you extant on my 
return.” 

She went off with knowing little nods into 
Josepliine’s room. 

Dead silence. 

“Monsieur,” began Laure, in a faint whisper. 

“ Mademoiselle !” 

“I thank you humbly for your generosity. 
But you were always generous. 1 felt you 
would not betray me.” 

“ Mademoiselle, your secret belongs to you, 
not to others. I — Curse on my weakness! 
Adieu !” 

He moved to go. 

She bowed her head with a despairing moan. 

It took him by the heart and held him. He 
licsifated, then came towards her. 

“I see you are sorry for what you have done 
to me who loved you so, — whom you loved. Oh 
yes, do not deny it, Laure ; there was a time 
you loved me. And that makes it worse: to 
have given me such sweet hopes, only to crush 
both them and me. And is not this cruel of 
you ? even now, to weep so and let me see your 
penitence, — when it is too late!” 

“Alas! how can I help my regrets? I have 
insulted so good a friend.” 

There was a sad silence. Then, as he looked 


at her, her looks belied the charge her own lips 
had made against herself. 

A light seemed to burst on Edouard from 
that high-minded, sorrow-stricken face. 

“Tell me it is false !” he cried. 

She hid her face in her hands, — woman’s in- 
stinct to avoid being read. 

“Tell me you were misled, then, fascinated, 
perverted, — but that your heart returned to me. 
Clear yourself of deliberate deceit, and I will be- 
lieve and thank you on my knees.” 

“ Heaven have pity on us !” cried poor Laure. 

“On us! Thank you for saying on us. Sec 
now, you have not gained happiness by destroy- 
ing mine. One word : do you love that man ? 
— that Dujardin ?” 

“You know I do not.” 

“I am glad of that ; since his life is forfeited ; 
if he escapes my friend Raynal, he shall not es- 
cape me !” 

Laure uttered a cry of terror. 

“Hush! not so loud. The life of Camille! 
Oh ! if he were to die, what were to become of — 
Oh, pray do not speak so loud !” 

“ Own then that you do love him,” yelled 
Edouard ; “give me truth, if you have no love 
to give. Own that you love him, and he shall 
be safe. It is myself I will kill, for being such 
a slave as to love you still!” 

Laure’s fortitude gave way. 

“I can not bear it!” she cried, despairingly ; 
“ it is beyond my strength ! Edouard, swear to 
me you will keep what I tell you secret as the 
grave? — hush ! here they come.” 

The baroness came smiling out, and Josephine’s 
wan anxious face was seen behind her. 

“Well,” said the baroness, “is the war at an 
end? What, are we still silent? Let me try 
then what I can do. Edouard, lend me your 
hand.” 

While Edouard hesitated, Josephine clasped 
her hands and mutely sup])licated him to con- 
sent. Her sad face, and the thought of how 
often she had stood his friend, shook his resolu- 
tion. Ho held out his hand sloAvly and unwil- 
lingly : for what was the use taking hands when 
hearts were estranged ? 

“There is my hand,” he muttered. 

“And here is mine, mamma,” said Laure, 
smiling to please her. 

Oh ! the mixture of feeling, when her soft 
warm palm pressed his. How the delicious sense 
baffled and mystified the cold judgment. 

Josephine smiled. It was a respite. 

While the young lovers yet thrilled at each 
other’s touch, yet could not look one another in 
the face, a sudden clash of horses’ feet was heard. 

“That is Colonel Raynal,” said Josephine, 
with unnatural calmness. “I expected him to- 
day.” 

The baroness was at the side window in a 
moment. 

“ It is he ! — it is he !” 

She hurried down to embrace her son. 

Josephine went without a word to her own 
room. Laure followed her the next moment. 
But in that one moment she worked magic. 

She glided up to Edouard, and looked him 
full in the face. Not the sad, depressed, guilty- 
I looking, humble Laure of a moment before, but 
I the old, high-spirited, and somewhat imperious 
girl. 


WHITE LIES. 


1G5 


“ You have shown yourself noble this day. 
I am going to trust you as only the noble are 
trusted. Stay in the house till I can speak to 
you !” 

She was gone, and something leaped within 
Edouard’s bosom, and a flood of light seemed to 
burst in on him. Yet he saw no object clearly ; 
but he saw light. 

Josephine went to her room, opened a drawer, 
and took out a little phial. She knelt down, and 
was in the act of conveying the phial to her lips 
when the handle of the door was turned, and 
as the instinct of concealment was stronger even 
than the desire of death, she hid the phial swiftly 
in her bosom, and rose hastily from her knees. 
But this latter action was surprised by Laure. 

“What are you doing, Josephine, on your 
knees ?” 

“I have a great trial to go through to-day,” 
was the hesitating answer. 

Laure said nothing. She turned paler. She 
is deceiving me again, thought she, and Laure 
sat down full of bitterness and terror ; and, af- 
fecting not to watch Josephine, watched her. 

“ Go and tell them I am coming, Laure.” 

“ No, Josephine, I will not leave you till this 
terrible meeting is over.” 

“Let us come then,” said Josephine, dogged- 
ly, “ and encounter it at once.” 

“Yes, Josephine, hand in hand as we used to 
go, when our hearts were one.” 

Josephine arranged her hair in the glass ; 
woman to her last gasp. A deep voice was now 
lieard in the sitting-room. 

Josephine and Laure went to the door, paused 
irresolutely a moment, then entered the tapes- 
tried room. 

Kaynal was sitting on the sofii : the baron- 
ess’s hand in his. Edouard was not there. 

Colonel Raynal had given him a sti'ange look, 
and said : “ What, you here !” in a tone of voice 
that was intolerable. 

Raynal came to meet the sisters. He saluted 
Josephine on the brow. 

“You are pale, my wife; and how cold her 
hand is !” 

“She has been ill this month past,” said 
Laure. 

“You look ill, too. Mademoiselle Laure.” 

“Never mind,” cried the baroness, joyously, 
“you will cheer them all up.” 

“Yes,” said Raynal, moodily. 

“ How long do you stay this time, — a day?” 

“A month, mother.” 

The doctor now joined the party, and friendly 
greetings passed between him and Raynal. 

But ere long somehow all became conscious 
this was not a joyful meeting. The baroness 
could not alone sustain the spirits of the party, 
and soon even she began to notice that Raynal’s 
replies were short, and that his manner was dis- 
trait and gloomy. The sisters saw this, too, and 
trembled for what might be coming. 

The gloom deepened. At last Raynal whis- 
pered : 

“Josephine, I want to speak to you alone.” 

The baroness did not hear, but by his whisper- 
ing she divined he would speak in private to his 
wife. 

She gave the doctor a look, and made an .ex- 
cuse for going down-stairs to her own room. 
As slic was going, Josephine went to her. I 


“ Mother, you have not kissed me to-day.” 

“There ! Bless you, my darling!” 

Raynal looked at Laure. She saw she must 
go : but she lingered, and sought her sister’s eye : 
! it avoided her. (“She is deceiving me.”) Laure 
ran to the doctor, who was just going out of the 
door. 

“ Oh, doctor !” she whispered, trembling, “don’t 
go beyond the door. I found her praying. My 
mind misgives me.” 

“ What is she going to do?” 

“Tell her husband — or something worse.” 

“What ? Speak ! — what do you fear ?” 

“I am afraid to say all I dread. She could 
not be so calm if she meant to live. Be nbar ! 
as I shall.” 

She left the old man trembling, and went back 
to Raynal. She interrupted them just as he 
was saying to J osephine ; 

“I was d little surprised at your reception of 
me, but it was my own fault.” 

“Excuse me,” said Laure, “I only came to 
ask Josephine if she wants any thing.” 

“ No ! — yes ! — a glass of eau suc7'L” 

Laure mixed it for her. While doing this, 
she noticed that Josephine shunned her eye, but 
Raynal gazed gently, and with an air of pity, on 
her. 

She retired slowly into Josephine’s bedroom. 

“Well,” said Raynal, with a heavy sigh, “ first 
let us speak of your health, — it alarms me ; and 
of your apparent sadness, which I do not under- 
stand. You have no news from the Rhine, have 
you ?” 

“ Monsieur !” 

“ Do not call me monsieur ; nor look so fright- 
ened. Call me your friend. I am your sincere 
friend.” 

“ Oh yes ! you always were.” 

“ Thank you ! You will give me a dearer ti- 
tle before we part this time.” 
j “ Yes,” said Josephine, in a low whisper. 
And she took a phial from her bosom, and pour- 
ed the contents into the glass of eau sua'6. 

“ What is that ?” asked Raynal. 

“A soothing draught. I suffer, monsieur.” 

“ Call me Jean.” 

“ If you please. I suffer, Jean ; more than 
I can bear: this soothes my pain.” 

“Poor soul! But sit down and calm your- 
self, for I have something very serious to say.” 

Josephine took the seat with some reluc- 
tance. She eyed the glass wistfully. After all, 
she could get to it at any moment. 

Raynal hesitated. 

“ First, have you forgiven me frightening you 
so that night ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ It was a shoek to me too : I like the boy. 
She professed to love him, and, to own the truth, 
I loathe all treachery and deceit. If I had done 
a murder, I would own it. A lie doubles every 
crime. But I took heart; we are all selfish, we 
men : of the two sisters one was all innocence 
and good faith ; and she was the one I had 
chosen.” 

At these words Josephine rose like a statue 
moving, and put out her hand to the cup, and in 
one moment she would have drank, and sat pa- 
tient, attending to Raynal with death coursing 
through her veins. 

But between her and the king of terrors, ii.to 


1G6 


WHITE LIES. 


whose arms she was gliding, was a danger she 
dared not face. 

A wasp was liovering right over the sugared ^ 
death. 

She drew back hastily, with a look of dismay. 
Raynal took up a paper-knife with zeal. 

“ Oil do not kill it, poor thing ! The window 
is open : make it fly away.” 

liaynal drove away the wasp with his hand- 
kerchief, and Josephine stretched her hand out 
to the glass, and, fixing her eye on Raynal to see 
whether he would let her, raised it slowly to 
her lips. 

Meantime Raynal, with his eyes gloomily low- 
ered, said in a voice full of strange solemnity : 

“ I went to the army of the Rliine.” 

Josephine put down the glass directly, though 
without removing her hand from it. 

“I see you understand me, and approve. 
Yes! I saw that your sister would be dishonor- 
ed, and I "went to the armv, and I saw Dujar- 
din.” 

“Ah! what did you say to him?” and she 
quivered all over. 

“ I TOLD HIM ALL. ” 

“You— told him all?” 

“ Hush, Josephine, don’t speak so loud, and 
come this w'ay ; there, don’t fiddle with that glass, 
my poor soul. Drink it or leave it alone : for I 
want all your attention, all your aid, all your ex- 
cuses.” 

He took the glass out of her patient hand, 
and, with a furtive look at the bedroom door, 
drew her away to the other end of the room. 

“ I taxed Dujardin with her seduction : he 
did not deny it. I told him he must marrv 
her?” 

“Yes.” 

“ He refused. I challenged him. He accept- 
ed.” 

Josephine shuddered, and shrank from Ray- 
nal. 

“ Do not alarm yourself. We never met.” 

“ Ah ! thank Heaven !” 

“ Oh no, that sin was spared mo : indeed, be- 
fore we parted, the poor fellow consented. I 
felt happy then. I thought I had saved the hon- 
or of our family. My wife, I have a favor to 
ask )’ou. I am in distress and embarrassment. 
And you can do it: for he was indifferent to 
you, comparatively. And I have not the cour- 
age — oh, I should feel like a thief, like a coward, 
before her. AVill you T' 

“ What ?” gasped Josephine. “ You confuse, 
you perplex me! Oh, what does this terrible 
preparation mean ?” 

“It means that I shall never save the honor 
of your house now.” 

“Oh! is that all? thank Heaven!” She did 
not know what she was saying. 

“ He will never marry Lanre : he will never 
see her more.” 

“ I see ! he told you he would. never come to 
Beaurepaire. He did well.” 

“ Alas! no ! that is not it. I tell you he con- 
sented.” 

“To what, in Heaven’s name !” 

“ To marry her. He shook hands with me, 
the tears in his eyes. Ah! I understand the tears 
in those lion eyes now, now that it is too late.” 

Raynal groaned. 

“ Wife, I was to attack the bastion. He know 


it was mined. He took advantage of my back 
being turned. He led his men out of thetrench- 
I es : he assaulted the bastion at the head of his 
brigade. He took it.” 

“ Ah ! it was noble : it was like him !” 

“ The bastion, undermined by tbe enemy, was 
blown into the air, and Dujardin is dead.” 

“Dead !” 

“Hush! I hear Laure at the door! hush ! 
He took my place, and is dead. Swallowed up 
in flames, and crushed to atoms under the 
ruins.” 

“Oh! oh! oh! oh!” 

Her whole body gave way, and bowed like a 
tree falling under the axe. She sank slowly to 
her knees, and low moans of agony broke from 
her at intervals. 

“Is it not terrible?” he cried. 

She did not hear him nor see him. 

“Dead! — dead! — dead!” 

“ War ! I never felt you till that hour.” 

“ Dead ! — ah ! — pity ! — the glass !” 

She stretched her hands out wildly. Raynal, 
with a face full of concern, ran to the table and 
got the glass. She crawled on her knees to meet 
it, he stirred it, and brought it quickly to her 
hand. 

“There, my poor soul !” 

Now', as their hands met, Laure threw herself 
on the cup, and snatched it with fury from them 
both. She was white as ashes, and her eyes, 
supernaturally large, glared on Raynal wdth 
terror. 

“Madman!” 

He glared back on her : what did this mean ? 
Their eyes were fixed on each other like combat- 
ants for life and death : they did not see that the 
room w'as filling with people, that the doctor was 
only on the other side the table, and that the 
baroness and Edouard w'ere at the door, and all 
looking w’onder-struck at this strange sight, — 
Josephine on her knees, and those two facing 
each other, white with dilating eyes : the glass 
between them. 

But what W'as that to the horror, when the next 
moment the patient Josephine started to her feet, 
and, standing in the midst, tore her hair by hands- 
ful out of her head. 

“ Ah ! you snatch the kind poison from me !” 

“ Poison !” 

“ Poison ! !” 

“ Poison ! ! !” 

“ Ah ! you w'on’t let me die. Curse you all ! 
— curse you! I never had my own way in any 
thing. ' I wms always a slave and a fool. I have; 
murdered the man I love, — I love ! Yes, my h us- 
band, do you hear, the man I love !” 

“Hush ! daughter, — rcs]>cct my gray hairs — ” 

“ Your gray hairs ! Y'ou are not so old in 
years as I am in agony. So this is your love, 
Laure. Ah ! you won’t let me die, — w'on’t you ? 
Then I’ll do worse, — I’ll tell !” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ Enough of baseness and lies ! From this 
moment, honor to whom honor is due, shame to 
w’hom shame. Ah ! there is Edouard. I am 
glad of if. He, who is dead, — and I will follow 
him, I will ! I will, — ho was my betrothed. He 


WHITE LIES. 


167 


BtruggleJ, wounded, bleeding to my feet. He 
found me married. News came of my husband’s 
death, — I married my betrothed.” 

“ Married him ! my daughter?” 

“ Ah, here is my poor mother. And she kiss- 
ed me so kindly, just now, — she will kiss me no 
more. Oh ! I am not ashamed of marrying him. 
I am only ashamed of the cowardice that dared 
not do it in face of all the world. We had scarce 
been happy a fortnight, when a letter came from 
Colonel Raynal. He was alive. I drove my 
true husband away, wretch that I was. I tried 
to do my duty to my legal husband. He was 
my benefactor. I thought it was my duty, — was 
it ? I don’t know. I have lost the sense of right 
and wrong. I turned from a loving creature to 
a lie. He who had scattered benefits on me and 
all this house, he whom it was too little to love, 
he ought to haved)een adored, — this man came 
here one night to his wife, proud, joyous, warm- 
hearted. He found a cradle, and two women 
watching it. Now, Edouard, now monsieur, do 
you see that life is impossible to me ? One brave- 
ly accused herself. She was innocent. One 
swooned away like a guilty coward.” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes, Edouard, you shall not be miserable like 
me. She was guilty. You do not understand 
me yet, my poor mother, — she was so happy this 
morning, — I was the liar, the coward, the double- 
faced wife, the miserable mother that denied her 
child. Now will you let me die ? Now do you 
see that I can’t and won’t live upon shame and 
despair. Ah, Monsieur Raynal, my dear friend, 
you were always generous : you will pity and kill 
me. I have dishonored the name you gave me 
to keep ; I am neither De Beaurepaire nor Ray- 
nal. Do pray kill me, monsieur, — Jean, do pray 
release me from my life !” 

And she crawled to his knees and embraced 
them, and kissed his hand, and pleaded more pit- 
eously for death, than others have begged for 
life. 

Raynal stood like a rock : he was pale, and 
drew his breath audibly : but not a word. Then 
came a sight scarce less terrible than Josephine’s 
despair. The baroness, looking and moving 
twenty years older than an hour before, tottered 
across the room to Raynal. 

“ Sir, you whom I have called my son, but 
whom I will never presume so to call again, I 
thought I had lived long enough never to have 
to blush again. I loved you, monsieur. I pray- 
ed every day for you. But she who ivas my daugh- 
ter was not of my mind. Monsieur, I have never 
knelt but to God and to my king, and I kneel to 
you ; forgive us, sir ; forgive us !” 

She tried to go down on her knees. He raised 
her with his strong arm, but he could not speak. 
She turned on the others. 

“ So this is the secret you were hiding from 
me ! This secret has not killed you all. Oh I I 
shall not live under its shame so long as you have. 
Chateau of Beaurepaire, — nest of treason, in- 
gratitude, and immodesty, — I loathe you as much 
as once I loved you. I will go and hide my head’ 
and die elsewhere.” 

At last Raynal spoke. 

“Stay, madame!” said be, in a voice whose 
depth and dignity were such that it seemed im- 
possible to disobey it. “ It was sudden, — I was 
shaken, — but I am myself again, I see it all now.” 


“Oh, show some pity !” cried Laure. 

“ I shall be just.” 

There was a long, trembling silence, and dur- 
ing that silence and terrible agitation one figure 
stood firm among those quaking, beating hearts, 
like a rock with the waves breaking round it, — 
the MAN OF PRINCIPLE among the creatures of 
impulse. 

“Rise, Madame Dujardin, sit there,” 

He placed her, more dead than alive, in a large 
arm-chair. 

“ Mother !” 

“ What ! you call me mother still ?” 

“You are a trifle too hard upon the weak. I 
must be neither harsh nor weak, — I must be just. 

“ Madame Dujardin, you are an honest wom- 
an. But you are not open. Your fault has been 
cowardice and want of truth. You should have 
told me long ago. What had you to fear? I 
was your friend, and not a selfish friend. I was 
not enough in love with you to cut your throat : 
I don’t hold with that sort of love. If you had 
only trusted me, I would have saved you all this. 
You doubted me without cause. I am angry 
with you, and I forgive you. She does not even 
hear me.” 

“Oh yes, monsieur, my sister hears you. 
See the tears streaming from her poor eyes.’^ 

“ Poor thing ! I have some little comfort in 
store for her. First, this unfortunate marriage 
of ours can be annulled.” 

There was a general exchunation, except from 
Josephine. 

“ We have only to consent to do away with it. 
The notary told me so in my ear on our wedding- 
day: and that is what tears me when I think if 
she could but have been frank with me. — Ten 
thousand devils! that marriage shall be annulled 
to-morrow. But I must not stop there. I have 
others to be just to. If I stand here a living 
man, to whom do I owe it ? To Colonel Du- 
jardin, who gave his life for me. To risk life 
for a comrade is nothing ; but to sacrifice it with- 
out hope as he did for me, is very different. 
What, when he had but to fold his arms, and let 
me die, and by my death get the woman he 
loved ; he gave up life and love for me, and for 
his own heroic sense of honor. 

At these words Josephine sobbed wildly. 

The just man warmed : 

“ I have lived with heroes : I have fought with 
the brave against the brave, and I say this was a 
godlike action. The w'orld has never seen a 
greater. If he stood there and asked me for all 
the blood in my body, I would have given it 
him at a word. He is dead ! but his widow and 
his child are my care, and no other man’s. To- 
morrow I shall be in Paris, and your marriage 
with Dujardin shall be confirmed. Ah! weak 
but lofty creature. I see by your eyes that this 
brightens even your despair. You thought all 
was lost, — no ! Josephine, all is never lost when 
honor is saved.” 

“ Bless you ! bless you ! my boy blesses you by 
his poor mother’s lips ; bless — ” She sank fee- 
bly back in her chair in a vain endeavor to thank 
him in the midst of her despair. 

“ What, are you grateful to me ! then do some- 
thing to please me. Words go for little with me.” 

The poor soul revived a little when ho told 
her she could do something for him, 

“Promise me something,” 


1G8 


WHITE LIES. 


“ I will.” 

“Not to attempt self-destruction again. Come, 
promise me upon your honor.” 

“ I promise,” sighed Josephine. , 

“Now, mother, and you, Edouard, we will j 
leave her with the doctor and her sister. Come,” 
and he took them all out of the room sharp. 
Looking round, he caught sight of Edouard’s 
face ; it was radiant w'ith joy. Raynal start- 
ed at sight of it, — then he reflected and mut- 
tered : “ Oh, ay ! I see !” 

Such is life. 

I drop the curtain on the sad scene that 
followed in the room he left: no words could 
give any idea of Josephine’s sorrow. Eear and 
misgivings, and the burning sense of deceit gnaw’- 
ing an honorable heart, were gone. Grief 
reigned alone. 

The marriage was annulled before the mayor ; 
and three days afterwards Raynal, by his influ- 
ence, turned a balance scale, and got the con- 
summated marriage formally allowed in Paris. 

AVith a delicacy for which one would hardly 
have given him credit, he never came near 
Beaurepaire till all this was settled ; but he 
brought the document from Paris that made 
Josephine the Widow Dujardin, and her boy the 
heir of Beaurepaire, and the moment she was 
really Madame Dujardin he avoided her no long- 
er ; and he became a comfort to her instead of 
a terror. 

The dissolution of the marriage was a great 
tie between them. So much that, seeing how 
much she looked up to Raynal, the doctor said 
one day to the baroness : “If I know any thing 
of human nature, they will marry again, pro- 
vided none of you give her a hint wdiich way her 
heart is turning.” 

They who have habituated themselves to live 
for others can suffer as well as do great things. 
Josephine kept alive. A passion such as hers, 
in a selfish nature, must have killed her. 

Even as it was, she often said, “ It is hard to 
live.” 

Then they used to talk to her of her boy. 
Would she leave him — Camille’s boy — without a 
mother ? And these words were never spoken 
to her quite in vain. 

Her mother forgave her, and loved her as be- 
fore. Who could be angry with her long ? ‘The 
air was no longer heavy with lies. Wretched as 
she was, she breathed lighter. Joy and hope 
Avere gone. Sorrow'ful peace was coming. When 
the heart comes to this, nothing but J’ime can : 
cure; but what will not Time do? Oh, what 
wounds he has healed ! His cures are incredi- 
ble. 

Yet are there a few hearts in nature so faith- 
ful that they carry their early wound to their late 
graves. 

Who then can predict the fate of Josephine 
Dujardin? the woman of w'omen, — the disingen- 1 
UOU.S, the true-hearted ? 

It was about a fortnight later. The little 
party sat one day, peaceful, but silent and sad, 
in the Pleasance, under the great oak. 

Two soldiers came in at the gate. They walk- 
ed feebly, for one was lame, and leaned upon ‘ 
the other, who was pale and weak, and leaned ' 
upon a stick. ' ' ! 


“ Soldiers,” said Raynal, “and invalided.” 

“ Give them food and wine,” said Josephine, 

Laure went towards them, but she had scarce- 
ly taken three steps ere she cries out : 

“It is Dard ! it is poor Dard! Come here, 
Dard : go to my sister.” 

Dard limped towards them, leaning upon Ser- 
geant La Croix. A bit of Dard’s heel had been 
shot away. 

Laure ran to the kitchen. 

“ Jacintha, bring out a table into the Pleas- 
ance, and something for two guests to eat.” 

The soldiers came slowly to the Pleasance, 
and were welcomed and invited to sit down, and 
received with respect: for France is not like 
England, — she honors the humblest of her 
brave. 

Soon Jacintha came out with a little round ta- 
ble in her hands. She dropped it at sight of 
Dard, and uttered a cry of joy, then affected a 
composure which was belied by her shaking 
hands and her glow'ing cheek. 

After a few words of homely welcome, — not 
eloquent, but very, sincere, — she went off with 
her apron to her eyes. She re-appeared with 
the good cheer, and served the poor fellows with 
radiant zeal. 

“ What regiment?” asked Raynal. 

Dard was about to anstver, but his superior 
stopped him severely ; then, rising with his hand 
to his forehead, he replied, with pride : 

“Twenty-fourth Brigade, second company. 
We were cut up at Philipsburg, and incorpo- 
rated with the twelfth.” 

Raynal regretted his question : for Josephine’s 
eye was instantly fixed on Sergeant La Croix 
with an expression words can not })aint. Yet she 
showed more composure, real or forced, than he 
expected. 

“Heaven sends him,” said she. “ My friend, 
tell me, were you — ah !” 

Colonel Raynal interfered hastily. 

“Think what you do, my poor friend. He 
can tell you nothing but what we know : not so 
much, in fact, as we know, for now I look at him 
I think this is the very sergeant we found lying 
insensible under the bastion. He must have 
been struck before the bastion was taken even.” 

“ I was, colonel, I was. I remember nothing 
but losing my senses, and feeling the colors go 
out of my hand.” 

“There, you sec, he knows nothing.” 

“It was hot work, colonel, under that bastion, 
but it was hotter to the poor fellows that got in. 
I heard all about it from Private Dard here.” 

“So then, it was you who carried the col- 
ors ?” 

“Yes, I was struck dowm with the colors of 
the brigade in my hand,” cried La Croix. 

“See how people lie about every thing, — 
they told me the colonel carried the colors.” 

“ Why, of course he did. You don’t think 
our colonel, the fighting colonel, would let me 
hold the colors of the brigade so long as he was 
alive. No ! he was struck by a Prussian bullet, 
and he had just time to hand the colors to me, 
and point with his sword to the bastion, and down 
he went. It was hot work, I can tell you. I did 
not hold them long, not thirty seconds, and, if we 
could know their history, they passed through 
more hands than that, before" they got to the 
Prussian flag-staff.” 


WHITE LIES. 


169 


Raynal suddenly rose, and walked rapidly to 
and fro, with his hands behind him. 

“ Poor colonel,” continued La Croix, “ well, 
I love to think he died like a soldier, and not 
like some of my poor comrades, hashed to atoms, 
and not a volley fired over him. I hope they put 
a stone over him, for he was the best soldier and 
the best general in the army.” 

“Oh, sir ! ” cried Josephine, “there is no 
stone even to mark the spot where he fell and 
she sobbed despairingly. 

“ W'hy, how is this, Private Dard ?” inquired 
La Croix, sternly. 

Dard apologized for the sergeant. Since his 
wound his memory comes and goes. 

“ Now sergeant, didn’t I tell you the colonel 
must have got the better of his wound, and got 
into the battery ?” 

“ It’s false. Private Dard, don’t I know our 
colonel better than that ? Would ever he have 
let those colors out of his hand, if there had been 
an ounce of life left in him ?” 

“ He died at the foot of the batteiy, I tell 
you.” 

“ Then why didn’t you find him ?” 

Here Jacintha put in a word with the quiet, 
subdued meaning of her class : 

“ I can’t find that any body ever saw the colo- 
nel dead.” 

“They did not find him, because they did not 
look for him,” said Sergeant La Croix. 

“ God forgive you, sergeant,” said Dard, with 
some feeling. “Not look for our colonel! We 
turned over every body that lay there, — full thirty 
there were, — and you were one of them.” 

“ Only thirty ! why we settled more Prussians 
than that. I’ll sweai\ Oh, the enemy had carried 
them otf.” 

“ Ay ! but I don’t see why they should carry 
our colonel otf. His epaulettes were all the thieves 
could do any good with. Stop ! yes, I do. Private 
Dard ; I have a horrible suspicion. No ! I have 
not, — it is a certainty. What, don’t you see, ye 
muff ? thunder and thousands of devils, here’s a 
disgrace. Dogs of Prussians, they have got our 
colonel, — tliey have taken him prisoner.” 

“ O God biess them ! O God bless the mouth 
that tells me so. Oh, sir, I am his wife, his poor, 
heart-broken wife. You would not be so cruel 
as to mock my despair. Say again that he may 
be alive, — pray say it again !” 

“ His wife !* Private Dard, why didn’t you tell 
me ? Yes, my pretty lady. I’ll say it again, and 
I’ll prove it. ^ Here is an enemy in full retreat, 
— w'ould they encumber themselves with the colo- 
nel ? — if he was dead, they’d have whipped off 
his epaulettes and left him there. Alive? — wdiy 
not? Look at me : I am alive, and I was wmrse 
wopnded than he w'as. They took me for dead, 
3'ou see. Courage, madame ! you will see him. 
again, — take an old soldier’s w'ord for it. Dard, 
attention ! this is the colonel’s w'ife.”^ 

She gazed on the speaker like one in a trance. 

Every eye and every soul had been so bent on 
Sergeant La Croix that it w’as onl}' now Raynal 
was observed to be missing. The next minute 
he came riding out of the stable-yard, and went 
full gallop dowm the road. 

“ Ah !” cried Laure, with a burst of hope. 
“ He thinks so too : he lias hopes. He has gone 
somewhere for information. Perhaps to Paris.” 

Josephine’s excitement, and alternations of 


hope and fear, were now alarming. Laure held 
her hand, and implored her to try and be calm 
till they could see Raynal. 

Just before dark became riding fiercely home. 
Josephine flew down the stairs. Raynal at sight 
of her forgot all his caution. He waved his cocked 
hat in the air. She fell on her knees and thank- 
ed God. He gasped out : 

“ Prisoner, — exchanged for tw’o Prussian lieu- 
tenants, — sent home, — they say he is in France !” 

The tears of joy gushed in streams from her. 

Some days passed in hope and joy inexpressi- 
ble ; but the good doctor was uneasy for Jose- 
phine. She was ahvays listening with su]>ernatu- 
ral keenness, and starting from her chair: and 
every fibre of her lovely person seemed to be on 
the quiver. 

Nor was Laure without a serious misgiving. 
Would husband and wife ever meet ? He evi- 
dently looked on her as Madame Raynal, and 
made it a point of honor to keep away from 
Beaurepaire. They had recoui'se to that ever- 
soothing influence, — her child. Thrice a week 
she went to Frejus, and used to come awaj' 
brighter and calmer. 

One day Laure and she went on foot to Ma- 
dame Jouvenel, and, entering the house without 
ceremony, found the nurse out, and no one watch- 
ing the child. 

“ How careless!” said Laure. 

Josephine stooped eagerly to kiss him. But, 
instead of kissing him, she uttered a loud ciy. 
There was a locket hanging around his neck. 

It was a locket containing someof Josephine’s 
hair and Camille’s. She had given it him in the 
happy days that followed their marriage. She 
stood gasping in the middle of the room. Ma- 
dame Jouvenel came running in just at that mo- 
ment. Josephine, by a wonderful effort over 
herself, asked her calmly and cunningly : 

“ Where is the gentleman who put this locket 
round my child’s neck ? I want to speak with 
him.” 

Madame Jouvenel stammered and looked con- 
fused. 

“A soldier, — an officer? — come, tell me.”. 

“Woman,” cried Laure, “why do 3’ou hesi- 
tate ? — it is her husband !” 

“ I guessed as much ; but my orders are — and 
if madame does not love the poor gentleman — ” 

“Not love him!” cried Laure. “She loves 
him as no woman ever loved before. She pines 
for him. She dies for him.” 

The door of a little back room opened at these 
words of Laure, and there stood Camille, with 
his arm in a sling, pale and astounded, but great 
joy working in his face. 

Josephine gave a cry of love that made the 
other two women weep, and in a moment they 
were sobbing for joy upon each other’s neck. 

o 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Away v'ent sorrow, doubt, despair, and all 
they had suffered. That one moment paid for 
all. And in that moment of joy and surprise, 
so great as to be almost terrible, perhaps it was 
well for Josephine that Camille, weakened by his 
wound, was quite overcome, and nearly fainted , 
She was herself just going into liysterics, but. 


170 


WHITE LIES. 


seeing him quite overcome, she conquered them 
directly, and nursed, and soothed, and pitied, and 
encouraged him instead. 

Then they sat hand in hand. Their happiness 
stopped their very breath. They could not speak. 
So Laure told him all. He never owned why 
he had slipped away when he saw them coming. 
He forgot it. He forgot all his hard thoughts 
of her. They took him home in the carriage. 
His wife would not let him out of her sight. 
For years and years after this she could hardly 
hear* to let him be an hour out of her sight. 
The world is wide; there may be a man in it 
who can paint the sudden bliss that fell on these 
two much-sulfering hearts, but I am not that 
man. This is beyond me. It was not only 
heaven, but heaven after hell. 

Leave we the indescribable and the unspeaka- 
ble for a moment, and go to a lighter theme. 

The day Laure’s character was so unexpect- 
edly cleared, Edouard had no opportunity of 
speaking to her, or a reconciliation would have 
taken place. As it was, he went home intensely 
happy. But he did not resume his visits to the 
chateau. When he came to think calmly over 
it, his vanity Avas cruelly mortified. She was in- 
nocent of the greater olfense ; but how insolently 
she had sacrificed him, his love, and his respect, 
to another’s interest. 

More generous thoughts prevailed by degrees. 
And one day that her pale face, her tears, and 
her remorse got the better of his offended pride, 
he found he could forgive her. And he was sure 
he could not be happy if he did not. 

He called, she received him, — I ioav? not on 
her knees as he expected, but with a stateliness 
and frozen reserve that gave him a new light as 
to the ins and outs of female character. In the 
middle of a grave remonstrance, which he in- 
tended to end by forgiving her, she told him 
that she had been debating pro and con, whether 
she could forgive him, and she found she could ; 
but not to such an extent as ever to become his 
wife. 

“Forgive me?” cried he, in great heat. He 
Avent into a passion, and could hardly articulate. 
This gave her an advantage. She remained cold 
and collected. She told him he had AAmunded 
her too deeply by his jealous, suspicious nature. 

“Was I not to believe your own lips? Am 
I the onlv one Avho believed you? Avas 1 to sav, 
‘She is a liar?”’ 

“ I forgive Colonel Raynal for believing me ! 
He did not knoAV tiic : but you ought to have 
known me. It is not as if Ave had been alone. 
You were my lover. You should have seen I was 
forced to deceiA^e poor Raynal : and you had no 
right to belicA'^e your eyes, much less your ears, 
against my truth !” 

Edouard Avas staggered. 

“ I did not see it in that light,” said he. 

“ But that is the light I see it in.” 

“ And do you make no excuse for me, Laure? 
I have been making many for you,” said Edou- 
ard, humbly. 

“I don’t knoAv Avhat excuses to make for 
you, but if you are humble, and ask my pardon, 
I will try and forgiA'e you, — in time.” 

“ Forgh'e me, Laure ! Your sex are hard to 
understand. ForgiA'c me !” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” 

“What is the matter, dear? Why do you cry ?” 


“What a f — f — fool you are not to see that 
it is I who am Avithout excuse. You are my 
betrothed. It Avas to you I OAved my duty, — 
not to my sister. To you, — the best friend I 
ever had. Oh, Edouard! I am Avicked, — un- 
happy. No Avonder you can’t forgive me.” 

“1 do forgive you.” He caught her in his 
arms. “ There, no more about forgiveness, my 
betrothed, — my wife ; let our contention be 
Avhich shall love the other best,” 

“ Oh, I knoAv how that Avill be!” said Laure, 
smiling Avith joy, and SAvalloAving a great sob ; 
“you Avill loA’e me best till you liaA^e got me, 
and then I shall love you best,” said the discern- 
ing toad. 

These tvAm AA'ere a happy pair. This Avayward 
but generous heart neA'er forgot her offense and his 
forgiveness. She gaA^e herself to him, heart and 
soul, at the altar, and Avell she redeemed her 
vow. He rose high in political life, and paid the 
penalty of that sort of ambition. His heart was 
often sore. But by his own hearth sat comfort 
and CA'cr-ready sympathy. Ay, and patient in- 
dustry to read blue-books, and a ready hand and 
brain to Avrite diplomatic notes for him, off’ which 
the mind glided as from a ball of ice. 

In thirty years she neA'er once mentioned the 
servants to him ! 

Oh, let eternal honor croAvn her name ! 

It Avas only a little bit of heel that Dard had 
left in Prussia. More fortunate than his pred- 
ecessor (Achilles), he got off Avith a slight but 
enduring limp. And so the army lost him. 

He married Jacintha, and Josephine set them 
up in Byot’s (deceased) auberge. Jacintha shone 
as a landlady, and custom flowed in. For all 
that, a hankering after Beaurepaire Avas obserA’- 
able in her. Her faA^orite stroll Avas into the 
Beaurepaire kitchen, and on all fkes and grand 
occasions she Avas prominent in gay attire as a 
retainer of the house. The last specimen of her 
homely sagacity I shall have the honor to lay 
before you is a critique upon her husband, which 
she vented six years after marriage. 

“My Dard,” said she, “is A'ery good as far 
as he goes. What he has felt himself, that he 
can feel for : nobody better. You come to him 
Avith an empty belly, or a broken head, or all 
bleeding Avith a cut, or black and blue, and you 
shall find a friend. But if it is a sore heart, or 
trouble, and soitoav, and no hole in your carcass 
to show for it, you had better come to me, for 
you might as Avell tell your grief to a stone Avail 
as to my man.” 

The baroness took her son Raynal to Paris, 
and there, Avith keen eye, selected him a Avife. 
She proA'cd an excellent one. It Avould have 
been hard if she had not, for the baroness, Avith 
the seA^ere sagacity of her age and sex, had set 
aside as naught a score of seeming angels, before 
she could suit herself Avith a daughter-in-law. 
At first Raynal A’ery properly kept clear of the 
Dujardins, but Avhen both had been married some 
years, the recollection of that fleeting and nom- 
inal connection Avaxed faint, Avhile the memory 
of great benefits conferred on both sides remain- 
ed lively as ever in hearts so great, and there 
was a Avarm, a sacred friendship between the 
two houses, — a friendship of the ancient Greeks, 
not of the modern club-house. 


WHITE LIES. 


Camille and Josephine were blessed almost 
beyond the lot of humanity : none can really 
appreciate sunshine but those who come out of 
the cold dark. And so with happiness. For | 
years they could hardly be said to live like mor- 
tals : they basked in bliss. But it was a near 
thing. They but just scraped clear of lifelong 
misery, and death’s cold touch grazed them both 
as they went. 


171 

Yet they had heroic virtues to balance White 
Lies in the great Judge’s eye. 

Have you great heroic virtues ? — no ? — then 
I remember Ananias and Sapphira, They died 
for a single White Lie, — a White Lie as com- 
mon as dirt. 

Have you great heroic virtues? — yes? — then 
do not nullify or defile them by White Lies, but 
gild them bright as the sun with Truth. 


THE 


END. 


I 




Franklin Square, New York, October, 1S70. 


HARPER & BROTHERS’ 

♦ 

LIST OF NEW BOOKS. 


5 ^^ Harper & Brothers will send any of the following books by mail, postage prepaid, to atiy part of the 

United States, on receipt of the price. 

Harper’s Catalogue, with Classified Index of Contents, sent by mail on receipt of Six Cents in 
postage stamps, or it may be obtained gratuitously on application to the Publishers perso?ially. 


HARPER’S COMPLETE EDITION OF THE 
LIFE AND WORKS OF THE REV. F. W, 
ROBIiRTSON, Incumbent of Brighton. 
Ill Two Volumes. $1 50 each. 

ROBERTSON’S LIFE, LETTERS, LECTURES 
ON CORINTHIANS, AND ADDRESSES. 
Complete iu One Volume. With Portrait 011 
Steel. Large 12mo, S40 pages, Cloth, $1 50; 
Half Calf, $3 25. 


ROBERTSON’S SERMONS. Complete in One 
Volume. With Portrait on Steel. Large 
12mo, 838 pages. Cloth, $1 50 ; Half Calf, $3 25. 


The publishers take pleasure in commending to 
public favor their complete and uniform Edition of 
the Life and Works of this gifted preacher, as more 
compact and neat than any other in the market, 
while its extraordinary cheapness puts it within the 
reach of many who have been heretofore prevented 
by their high price from possessing this author’s life 
and writings. 

Into two plump duodecimos, Avhose large print is 
large enough for poor eyes, and whose snnvll print is 
not unreasonably small, the Harpers have compressed 
the “Life and Letters,” “Lectures and Addresses,” 
and “Sermons” of the late Frederick W. Robertson. 
Of the sermons we have lately had occasion to speak, 
and few of our readers who are iu the habit of reading 
printed sermons are likely to be wholly unfamiliar 
with these. Their influence upon clergymen and stu- 
dents of divinity has been, and probably continues, 
great i but we should expect more general good to re- 
sult from an equabcirculation of the “Life and Let- 
ters.” Of this we remember to have written: “No 
biography since the publication of Stanley’s ‘ Life of 
Arirold ’ has been issued from the press so well adapt- 
ed to sink into the minds of younger men and mould 
their opinions, and to raise the tone of the Christian 
ministry to a higher standard;” and we added in ref- 
erence to the letters: “They are to be digested as 
Robertson himself read, and advised others to read- 
only a few pages at a time ; and so read, we know not 
where to And their equal for suggestive power.” This 
judgment, as we turn over the pages iu which IMr. 
Brooke has allowed his friend to portray himself as 
no one else could have done, we And conflrmed, espe- 
cially in what relates to the value of Mr. Robertson’s 
example and teachings for the young. Not only will 
they serve to evoke and develop the sentiment of re- 
ligion, to counteract the materialistic tendencies of 
the age, to call up lofty ideals and inspire manly en- 
thusiasm, but almost to impart the culture of a liberal 
education. — Nation. 


SCOTT’S SCHOOL HISTORY OF THE 
UNITED STATES. From the Discovery 
of America to the Year 1870. By David B. 
Scott. Illustrated with Maps and Engrav- 
ings. 12mo. {Just Ready.) 


MACGREGOR’S ROB ROY ON THE JOR- 
DAN. The Rob Roy on the Jordan, Nile, 
Red Sea, and Gennesareth, »S:c, A Canoe 
Cruise in Palestine and Egypt, and the Wa- 
ters of Damascus. By J. Macgregor, M. A. 
With Maps and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 
Cloth, $2 50. 

The “Rob Roy” is a canoe in which Mr. MacGregor 
had paddled his way over the lakes and rivers of many 
lands, and in which, a few months ago, he journeyed 
through the Suez Canal and followed the course of 
the Jordan, by reason of the light draught of his 
little vessel penetrating to spots heretonire never 
visited by Europeans. Mr. Macgregor Wields the pen 
as lightly as the paddle, and narrates his adventures 
in a style that does not often weary. — N. Y. Evening 
Post. 

The trip on the Jordan, from its sources to its mouth, 
is especially full of interest and value to the Christian 
reader. The work will supplement our knowledge of 
the lauds visited in many important particulars, and 
will convey an idea of the waters of Palestine with 
more minute distinctness than any previously pub^ 
lished. It abounds in valuable scientific information, 
and is enriched with maps and numerous fine illustra- 
tions. — Sunday-School Times. 

Always sprightly, a good story-teller, and actually 
having much that is worth narrating, he has really 
contributed not a little iu this interesting volume to 
our better acquaintance with several localities iu 
Syria. — Advance. 

One seldom finds a more entertaining book than 
this. The original and eccentric mode of traveling 
adopted by the author, his ludicrous and often ridic- 
ulous adventures, and the pleasant, racy style in which 
he writes, imiiart to these pages a veritable air of ro- 
mance. — N. Y. Herald. 

Exceedingly entertaining. — N. Y. Times. 


MARCH’S ANGLO-SAXON GRAMIMAR. 
A Comparative Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon 
Language ; in ivliich its Forms are Illustrated 
by those of the Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, Gothic, 
C)ld Saxon, Old Friesic, Old Norse, and Old 
High-German. By Francis A. March, Pro- 
fessor of the English Language and Compara- 
tive Philology in Lafayette College ; Author 
of “Method of Philological Study of the En- 
glish Language,” “A Parser and Analyzer 
for Beginners,” t&c. 8vo, Cloth, $2 50. 


WILLSON’S INTERMEDIATE FIFTH 
READER: on the Original Plan of the 
School and Family Series ; embracing, in 
brief, the Prineijiles of Rhetoric, Criticism, 
Eloquence, and Oratory, as applied to both 
Prose and Poetry. The whole adapted to 
Elocutionary Instruction. By Marcius 
Willson. 12mo. {Jtist Ready.) 


2 


Harper Bfvthers' List of New Books. 


AN INDEX TO HARPEirs NEW MONTH- 
LY MAGAZINE, Volumes I. to XL. : from 
June 1850, to May, 1870. 

The design of the publishers has been to furnish a 
complete Index — Alphabetical, Analytical, and Top- 
ical— for the lirst Forty Volumes of Hakpek’s New 
Monthly 3Iaga/.ine. The plan upon which the In- 
dex has been prepared is as follows : 

I. Every paper which has a))peared in the Magazine 
is entered under its title, as it appeared in the Maga- 
zine ; and, wherever it seemed advisable, the papers 
have been entered more than once under proper ini- 
tial w’ords. 

II. Under the name of each author is given the title 
of every paper furnished by him or her. The name 
of each author, so far as it can be ascertained, is also 
appended to every paper. 

III. The articles and the topics treated in them have 
also been grouped umler appropriate heads. 

IV. Whenever a ])aper is accompanied by illustra- 
tions, a full list of the titles of these is given under 
the head of the article ; and whenever a subject is en- 
tered topically, if it is illustrated, the fact is denoted 
by asterisk affixed to the paper. 

V. The leading editorial departments of the Mag- 
azine have been fully indexed. 

VI. The forty volumes of the Magazine included in 
this Index constitute, when taken together, a perfect 
Cyclopjedia of Travel, Discovery, and Adventure. 
One of the most important features of this Index is 
that it facilitates references to this invaluable treasury 
of useful and entertaining knowledge. These ref- 
erences are made under four heads: (1) “Travels;" 
(2) “Iluuting Adventures;" (3) “Customs, Habits, 
etc.;" and (4) “Arctic Adventures." Besides this, 
each country is entered under its own name. This 
record of Travel, Discovery, and Adventure covers a 
period of twenty years. Every important exploration, 
every memorable voyage, finds here a place. No- 
Avhere else can be found so complete a description of 
strange peoples and partially-explored countries. 

VH. Separate topics, treated in various papers in 
the Magazine, are noted in the Index, Avith a refer- 
ence to volume and page of the Magazine. 

vm. The entire contents of the Index are arranged 
in a single alphabetical order, so that any article, au- 
thor, or topic can be as readily referred to as any Avord 
in a Dictionary. In printing the Index, each alternate 
page has been left blank, so that any person can con- 
tinue the Index for a large number of volumes to 
come. 


T0:M BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS. By An 
Old Boy. Ncav Edition. Beautifully Illus- 
trated by Arthur Hughes and Sidney Prior 
Hall. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

Nothing need be said of the merits of this, acknoAvl- 
edged on all hands to be one of the very best boy’s 
books eA’er Avritten. “Tom BroAvn” docs not reach 
the point of ideal excellence. He is not a faultless 
boy ; but his boy-faults, by the Avay thej' are corrected, 
help him in getting on. The more of such reading 
can be furnished the better. Then 11 never be too 
much of it. — Exaviiner and Chronicle. 


TOM BROWN AT 0:^0RD. By the Au- 
thor of “Tom BroAvn's School Days.” New 
Edition. With Illustrations by Sidney P. 
Hall. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 


TENNWSON’S POETICAL WORKS. Poet- 
ical Works of Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laure- 
ate. With numerous Illustrations and Three 
Characteristic Portraits. Ncav Edition, con- 
taining many Poems not hitherto included in 
his collected AA’orks, and Avith the Idyls of the 
King arranged in the order indicated by the 
Author. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; Cloth, $100. 

The print is clear and excellent ; the paper is good ; 
the volume has illustrations from Dore, Millais, and 
other great artists. Really, the edition is a sort of 
prodigy in its Avay. — Independent. 

Those Avho Avant a perfect and complete edition of 
the AA'orks of the great English Poet Laureate should 
purchase the Harper edition. — 2Voy Ludget. 


CHARLES DICKENS : THE STORY OF 
HIS LIFE. By the Author of “ The Life of 
Thackeray.” Portraits taken at various times, 
and VicAvs. of his Residences. 8vo, Paper, 50 
cents. 

^ Mr. Theodore Taylor has executed his task — far from 
an easy one — Avith taste and judgment. He has clearly 
had opened to him some special sources of information, 
and has used them Avith singular good sense. Anec- 
dotes seem to have poured in upon him from all quar- 
ters. — London Standard. 

A record of the incidents in a career full of labor.'’, 
full of triumphs, and almost exceptionally full of friend- 
ships. * * * The volume, in truth, is a faithful account 
of every event in the life of Dickens, social, domestic, 
or literary, vA'hich can interest the reader. — London 
Daily Telegra^^h. 

Contains a great deal of interesting matter. * * * Mr. 
Dickens’s career is traced in this volume accurately 
and in detail. — London Observer. 

This “ Life of Dickens ’’ deals Avith a Avonderful num- 
ber of facts stretching over the long public life of tne 
great author Avho has just left us. * * * We have no- 
thing for it but commendation. * * * The long and 
brilliant career traced in these pages is a very striking 
one. ■* * * The book before us is an example of ram 
good taste. There is in it none of the impertinent cu- 
riosity Avhich sometimes prompts biographers to deal 
Avith surmises and guesses, Avith AA'hich the outside 
public have really nothing to do.— Echo (London). 

* * * It is full of anecdote. — Graphic (Loudon). 


SPEECHES, LETTERS, AND SAYINGS of 
CHARLES DICKENS. To Avhich is addod 
a Sketch of his Life by George Augustus Sal t, 
and Dean Stanley’s Sermon. With Portrait 
on Wood. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

As a deliverer of Avhat the French Avould call ‘ 
speech of occasion,” iio one is more happy. — Ft. 
Fitzgerald. 

His capital speeches. Every one of them reads like 
a page of “ PickAvick.” — Critic. 

The speeches of Dickens, which occupy the largest 
portion of the A'olume, are Avell Avorth reading, for he 
Avas not incorrectly rated as the best after-dinner 
speaker of note in England. They have been well de- 
scribed as fanciful, humorous, exuberant, fioAving, 
earnest, generous, sparkling, and graceful, and as 
such they can not fail to be ahvays fresh and enter- 
taining, take them up Avhen we may. — Albion. 

It AA'ill be welcome to all readers eager for literary 
and personal reminiscences of the departed author. — 
N. Y. Evening Post. 

He Avas a graceful, charming letter-Avriter, and none 
excelled him in happy after-dinner remarks. — Advance. 


Y'ONGE’S ENGLISH - GREfeK LEXICON. 
An English-Greek Lexicon. By C. D. Yoxge. 
With many Ncav Articles, an Appendix of 
Proper Names, and Pillon’s Greek %nonyms. 
To which is prefixed an Essay on the Order 
of Words in Attic-Greek Prose, by Charles 
Short, LL.D., Professor of Latin in Columbia 
College, N. Y. Edited by Henry Drisler, 
LL.D., Professor of Greek in Columbia Col- 
lege, Editor of “Liddell and Scott’s Greek- 
Euglish Lexicon,” &c. 8a'o, Sheep extra, 

$7 00. 

The reprint of Yonge’s English-Greek Dictionary is 
a Avelcome addition to the means of classical study in 
this country. The original Avork, long kuoAA'ii to schol- 
ars as the be.st of its kind, has been greatly enriched 
and imi)roved by the additions of Professor Drisler. 
Prefixed to it is a learned and lucid essay by Professor 
Short, on the Order of Words in Attic Prose, an im- 
portant subject,, but never before treated Avith proper 
thoroughness. Appended is Pillon’s Greek Syno- 
nyms, the only accessible work rn that subject. The 
volume should be in the hands of every one Avho 
Avishes to gain a thorough knoAvledge of Greek. — 
James Hadley, Yale College, June 6, 1S70. 





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